The Long Road
by Enaid Aderyn
Summary: Companion piece to 'Mabari & Magus': Life's journey can lead to extraordinary places, not least those within oneself. Key moments in Sabhya Amell's life, pre-game and moving through the Blight. Slightly AU-ish. Rating now M just in case for implied adult themes and violent imagery.
1. Bautismo

_It had become something of an evening ritual, as much as the irregular lifestyle permitted, beginning shortly after Zevran joined the Warden's group. Where most of the party viewed the assassin with justifiable suspicion, Sabhya had made a point of joining him on watch, either engaging in quiet conversation or simply standing in companionable silence..._ _Perhaps a week later, Sabhya had asked diffidently whether he would object to conversing in Antivan during their watch. Surprised, Zevran shrugged and assented._

"_Are we to discuss deadly secrets so that none may understand? I am impressed by your resourcefulness." Sabhya looked distressed._

"_Ah, no, please don't misunderstand me. Certainly if the others are in earshot, we should speak so all can understand. I just..." He trailed off, unspoken thoughts passing across his countenance like the shadow of a bird in flight. The elf looked at him questioningly._

"_I'm being foolish, I know," the little mage said softly, almost to himself. "It's just been so long since I've heard the tongue spoken. Longer still since I last spoke it myself. It would be...I was very small..." He refocused on Zevran, who stood over three inches taller than himself, and his eyes creased in self-deprecating humor. "Even smaller than now, believe it or not."_

_Initially Zevran's motivation was self-preservation alone: to stay in the good graces of the Warden while gleaning any knowledge about him that might be of use. Judging by the occasional juvenile speech mannerism, it was indeed likely that the mage had stopped speaking Antivan as a child. Far more intriguing, though, were the blurred sibilants and softened consonants – a distinctly upper-class pattern as opposed to the staccato street patois – an observation Zevran filed away for future consideration along with a faint, wholly unfamiliar lilt that defied identification._

_After a couple of weeks, however, the assassin realized he was enjoying the conversations in their own right, and after some struggle with his professional conscience accepted the fact. It was pleasant to spend an hour or so hearing the music of his native Antivan, like the patter of rain on a stream compared to that of Ferelden's boots stomping through mud. And Sabhya was different during the conversations, somehow. Not drastically so, nothing one could point at, but different even so. No less polite than ever. Less guarded, perhaps? More relaxed? Not precisely, but something like. (Happy, something whispered in the back of Zevran's mind.)_

_- from Mabari and Magus, 'Conversations in Antivan'_

* * *

**1. Bautismo**

**.o0o.**

Starting at the quiet tap on the door, Sabhya closed the shutters on his contemplation of the sleeting night rain, and, after a quick glance noting Blossom's unconcerned posture, crossed the room to answer.

"Zevran? Is everything all right? How can I help you?"

The assassin pushed himself from the corridor wall where he had been leaning.

"All is well – as well as this miserable weather permits. It struck me, however, that there is no reason we should not continue our conversation simply because we find ourselves mewed up in relative comfort for a change." He held up a bottle and a pair of glasses, adding in Antivan, "All the more reason we should."

Sabhya's face brightened.

"I would welcome your company, _compadre_," he replied in kind. "No added incentives are needed, although I certainly will not refuse. Please, come in."

He stood aside to allow Zevran to pass, then collected a second chair from the passageway to place near the fireplace. Zevran filled the glasses, using the chest at the foot of the bed as a table, and handed one to the little mage.

_"Gracias."_

_"De nada." _The elf seated himself and nodded toward a glint of silver on the chest. "Is that the item you so surreptitiously purchased from the fair Liselle some days back?" Sabhya looked faintly embarrassed, but inclined his head and handed the piece over for Zevran to inspect.

It was a tiny box, round and slightly larger in diameter than a fingertip. The enameled lid bore an image of a simple bloom, white with a hint of pink at its base. Glancing at Sabhya for permission, Zevran removed the lid and a heady fragrance rose from the balm within, spicy-sweet and uplifting.

"Jasmine?"

Sabhya nodded. "Pink night-blooming, to be precise. I was astonished to see it in her stock."

Zevran took another appreciative breath, savoring the taste of the richly scented twilights alien to Ferelden, and returned the box. "That could not have come cheaply."

"No." Sabhya rolled the silver bit between his fingers, delicately rubbing his thumb over the enameled flower. "But it was worth it to me," he added quietly. "It meant-"

He broke off, his eyes hooded and looking at memory, and Zevran waited, returning the patient silence the mage so frequently offered him.

"I never knew my Madre," Sabhya resumed at length. "She died of an illness before I was a year old. I know she was Rivaini, and if I concentrate, all that comes to me of her is the clink of bracelets and the fragrance of sandalwood. My Amah and my Padre raised me, and they were _everything. _His name was Paolo Luz de Bailador y Rebosa."

"'Rebosa'?" Zevran raised a brow. "That name I have heard."

"He was a very distant offshoot of the House, just close enough, as he would say, to entitle him to an impressive name for rolling off the tongue." Sabhya smiled. "You would have liked him, I think. He was an adventurer who had made his fortune, a privateer, and a rogue masquerading as a gentleman. Or perhaps it was the other way around."

"So, your name is not truly 'Amell'?"

"It is now..."

**.o0o.**

**.o0o.**

Black crowns gleaming, a flock of sparrows scattered from the courtyard fountain at the child's approach, a handful of the bolder ones returning immediately to resume their ablutions. He paused to watch, smiling at the birds' antics, then continued his progress along the rear arcade and entered the gardener's workroom.

Eduardo glanced up from where he knelt beside a potted cypress before making a careful incision in the bark.

"Eh, _pequeño_, your Amah has left for her half-day, then?"

"Yes." The child sniffed appreciatively at the sharp, green fragrance. "She said she won't be back until after bedtime. I think she was going somewhere important," he confided.

The man painted some substance along the cut. "Today is the anniversary of your Madre's passing," he said after a moment's silence. "I expect her plans have something to do with that."

Uncertain how to respond, the boy considered the information with a slight frown. His face cleared hopefully. "She said Padre should be returning today or tomorrow."

"Ah, now that is good news indeed."

Eduardo sat back on his heels, regarding the precocious child and rubbing absently at the ropey scars that wound around his neck to disappear under his collar. The ridges of flesh always made the boy think of tree roots, somehow, and he pictured them wrapping the length of the big man's body and out his toes to writhe into the ground.

"Well, then, _pequeño_. I do believe I have need of assistance. Would you be willing to help me?"

"Yes, please!"

"It is an important task. But wait, you are, what? Twenty-nine? Eighteen? Thirty-three?"

He giggled at the familiar joke. "Five!" Hesitating, he pictured Amah's stern look and added, "Almost."

"Almost-five is precisely what we need," Eduardo replied gravely, and the child beamed.

The next couple of hours were spent happily perched on a box at the seed-table, dibbling channels in trays of rich soil and meticulously patting seeds into their new beds, pretending he could hear tiny cries of satisfaction as he sprinkled water to settle them in. When he finished, he cleaned up under Eduardo's watchful eye, put the box away under the table, and wandered out onto the terrace at the far end of the room.

Here jasmine had climbed and mounded over the corner coping to form his favorite hidey-hole, and he dropped to hands and knees to creep within. A tweak to the fronds erased the signs of his passage and he was in a fragrant green cavern. For a time he sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, listening to the rustles and clinks of Eduardo working nearby and to the more distant sounds of the estancia's daily life.

The loops and turns of the jasmine tendrils looked like handwriting and the beautiful illuminated manuscripts Padre let him look at. Carefully, he traced the letters of his name in the dust and admired the result, thinking contentedly of the worlds of mystery in the library he was going to unlock at last.

A whinny drifting from the paddock inspired him to feel behind a loose brick for the old chess piece he had hidden, the little horse head with its flaring nostrils and flattened ears. He looped a bit of greenery through the open jaw for a rein and galloped it along the vines, pretending it was the pretty dun pony Padre had promised he could have for his very own for his fifth birthday. He would name it – yes, he would name it Tordito, for the faint dappling in its coat, like the colors of a thrush's breast.

Was someone shouting? He paused, listening, then shrugged. Maybe the potboy let the bread burn again and Esperanza was scolding.

He was going to ride Tordito to the ends of the world with Padre on a mighty stallion of his own, and they would bring back treasure, and books, and flowers, and all the most beautiful presents for Amah, who would hug him and say, "Well done, child" in that special tone that made everything right.

More people had begun shouting, with accompanying crashes and other noises. Was it a fiesta? He frowned, perplexed. If so, why had he not heard anything about it? And anyway, it didn't seem like they were happy, but sometimes adults could be-

"_Pequeño!_ Are you still there?" At Eduardo's urgent whisper he started, the chess piece dropping disregarded into the greenery.

"Yes, Edua-"

"Quiet! Do not speak. Listen and obey me. You must stay where you are, quiet as a mouse and _stay hidden!_ No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, do not move! Not a move, not a sound, not a _breath!_ As still as a stone, do you understand? No matter what: _as still as stone!_"

The unfamiliar tone of harsh command sent a trickle of dread through the child's stomach, but it was the undeniable note of fear in the big man's voice that caused him to freeze like an infant wild creature. There was a scuff of sandals and he was alone.

Then the nightmare began.

He heard the door to the workroom crash open, and Eduardo shouting defiance. Sounds of violent struggle – earthenware pots shattering – clatter of tools – a meaty, crunching sound followed by a hoarse cry and a _splashing_ sound –

_As still as stone . . ._

Strange voices, speaking in an unknown yet oddly familiar tongue over the sound of Eduardo's moaning, then –

Eduardo began to scream, and there were sounds of _ripping _and _cracking _and _popping_ and he kept _screaming –_

He wanted to cover his ears, but, unable to move for fear of discovery, had no choice but to hear everything -

_As still as stone . . ._

- and the screaming was repeated over and over everywhere in the villa – people – horses –

It lasted a thousand lifetimes before the last sounds ended and there was no further movement. The stillness was infinitely more terrifying.

Huddled in on himself, desperately trying to _not be there_ he stopped breathing altogether until black specks swam into his vision and he was forced to take the tiniest, shallowest breaths possible to remain utterly quiet. He did his best not to blink, certain that the click of skin would sound like a thunderclap and They would hear and find him.

_As still as stone . . ._

The shadows lengthened into full darkness. After a few tentative starts, the crickets began their usual chorus, each note striking like a crystal lash across his straining nerves.

Time.

_As still as stone . . ._

_. . . still as . . ._

_. . . stone . . ._

Whispers.

Hushed voices – raw with emotion – familiar.

"Ah, no . . . Eduardo . . ."

Amah?

" . . . _has_ to be here . . ."

Padre?

He tried to move, to call out, but found that he was unable. He had been stone too long, and his body's only response to his internal struggle was a quickened heartbeat at the thought they would go away, never knowing he was there.

_Is this being dead?_

Cautious steps onto the terrace – his name whispered urgently.

_Make a sound . . . anything . . ._

He could not. He could not. _He could not._

The jasmine was brushed aside, and in a shower of fragile blooms he was pulled into Padre's strong arms. Amah rushed to join them as Padre fell to his knees, pressing kisses into his child's hair.

"_Ah . . . mi tesorito . . . gracias . . .gracias . . ." _he whispered raggedly.

The stone shattered, and the child began to sob. Tearless, with the wracking gasps of an ancient of days struggling for his final breath. Amah reached to take him, but, for once disregarded as father and son clung to each other, stroked the little one's back instead.

"Shh, _mijito_, I have you." Padre's voice was a soothing rumble. "_Cálmate_, shh, _cálmate._"

He quieted eventually, lying exhausted with his arms around Padre's neck and head on his shoulder, letting their murmured conversation wash over him.

"Paolo, what shall we do?"

"Staying in this area is out of the question. Even in Antiva . . ."

"We could go to Rivain. Dayo's people-"

"Look around you, _vieja_!" Padre spoke in bitter tones. The child blinked slowly. "Do you pretend this was the work of the _Crows? _On _this_ of all days? You of all people know better."

"Yes." Amah sighed.

Over Padre's shoulder, he could see through the archway into the workroom, light from the gibbous moon making odd shadows.

"It was common knowledge I was away, nor was my return any secret. This was a threat. No, it is a promise. He is not finished."

Eduardo was lying across the seed table, which was now full to overflowing with some dark sludge. Why was his head at that awkward angle? And what was that streaky ridged thing on his throat?

"Then where?"

"Ferelden."

"_Ferelden?_ But there's nothing for us there-"

"Exactly."

Amah fell silent.

His perspective shifted abruptly and images from the butchers' stalls on market day superimposed over the scene. With a shiver, he turned his face into Padre's neck and felt the arms around him tighten reassuringly.

"Come, this isn't the place for talk." Padre stood up, still holding him. "We'll get to a safe house and make our plans."

They did their best to keep him from seeing the place of horror his home had become, but he could not help catching glimpses in spite of himself. The pools and splatters of blood. The split body pinned to the fountain with the ribs pulled askew like skeletal wings. The scatter of severed horses' heads around the paddock, one jammed over the head of an impaled man.

Well outside the estancia, settled in front of Padre on his skittish mount, he wondered vaguely if Tordito was still the same color without his head.

**.o0o.**

A fortnight later found the three on the docks of the little port town of Sciolto. Gulls wheeled and mewed in the impossibly blue sky, and the breeze felt as fresh and clean as if the world had been made only that morning. The child clung tightly to Amah's hand and studied the ship while she and Padre spoke quietly.

"Are you sure we are safe out here?"

"Yes." At the note of grim certainty in his voice, Amah gave him a sharp glance, but chose not to pursue the question. "I've called in some favors with an old crew member – she'll meet you in Highever and help get you inland where you can settle near her home village. I'll lay a false trail and come find you as soon as I can." The child looked up, his eyes widening, as Padre held out an envelope. "Here. Your letters of transport."

Amah turned her hand. "I need my fingers for a moment, child." He let go obediently, then edged closer as she opened the papers, his hand drifting up to grip a fold of her skirt.

"'Amell'?"

Padre shrugged. "Common enough not to raise eyebrows, different enough not to be obvious. And I went ahead and used Dayo's pet-name for him – we all call him that so often it's a wonder if he remembers his given name." Amah snorted at that.

"He remembers _everything_."

"Then he can remember what he needs to forget." Padre spoke mildly enough, and Amah refolded the documents with a shake of her head.

He was trying his best to be brave, but-

"Papi? Are you going away?"

At the lost note in his voice, Padre instantly went to one knee and hugged him fiercely, which he returned one-handed, carefully maintaining his grip on Amah.

"Only for a short time, _mijo_. I am the papa-quail, do you see? I run and lead the dogs away so my fat little quail-family can scurry into safety, and when all is clear I return and we make fat little quail jokes about the foolish dogs." He stared solemnly at the boy and held a fist against his head, wiggling a finger like a topknot. When a faint smile flickered across the child's face, Padre kissed his forehead. "There's my son. Think of the grand adventure ahead – see those beautiful white sails? You must learn all about the ship and watch for the dolphins and tell me everything. Now-" He stood.

"You and your Amah must turn around and march on board the ship and do not look back. Never fear, I will join you in a few months, safe and sound."

Amah met his eyes. "See that you do, Paolo."

"As you command, _bruja vieja._"

"I'll _bruja_ you." The older woman replied automatically, and she turned the child toward the ship.

"Come along, Sabhya. It's time for us to go."

**.o0o.**

**.o0o.**

"And did he return?"

Sabhya smiled wistfully. "Yes. Several times over the next few years. Until . . . well, until he did not." He was silent for a moment, and then came to himself with a shake of his head.

"Listen to me. I am sorry for running on so."

"Ah, you know you need not be, my dear Warden."

"Thank you, _compadre_." The mage reached out and touched the little silver box. "It is a strange thing. One would think that this fragrance would trigger the most visceral memories of the terror and damage the child I was suffered from that night. And yet, quite the opposite.

"Because, do you see, the ones who loved me had sought me out, found me against all odds, and pulled me from the abyssal nightmare in which I was trapped. And there, kneeling in the jasmine, breathing its fragrance, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I was safe and loved. Whatever came before, whatever came after, whatever is yet to come: for that one unending instant, _nothing_ could hurt me.

"And that is a memory I will always treasure."


	2. Shadows

"_The most innocuous things can have an extraordinary impact on a child." Sabhya hesitated fractionally and continued. "Before I learned how to read, I would flip through every book I could get my hands on. Partly I was pretending to be grown up and reading, partly I was looking for whatever pictures I could find. One day I came across a print of a Chantry allegory of the sins of humankind. It was a woodcut in an older Anderfelian style, stark, exaggerated lines and crowded with images. For some reason, one particular thing in that entire busy scene caught my eye: a man, or what was left of a man, trapped in a prison cell. His limbs and torso were unnaturally attenuated; his tendons stood out as though he'd been flayed. His mouth gaped and his eyes, overlarge and sunken, streamed with black tears. He clung with one hand to the bars with the other outstretched in a desperate attempt to reach- what? A key? Food? Somebody? Nothing was near._

"_It gave me screaming nightmares for a week." He picked up his cup and rotated it in his hand._

"_It also left me with an inordinate terror of being imprisoned. Not of closed spaces, but the idea of being locked up in a cell, in a cage . . ." A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he added with forced lightness, "Well, there you are. It might be best not to pass that on, please."_

_- from __Mabari and Magus__, 'Fear'_

* * *

**2. Shadows**

**.o0o.**

There was blood everywhere. Everywhere. Crimson rivulets streamed down the walls and foamed up and over the benches, which absorbed the liquid and became gelid blocks that steamed and quivered as he stumbled past. As far as his eye could see stretched doorways, in each of which a figure slouched with head twisted sideways to accommodate a gory stump of exposed spine, bulging eyes swiveling to watch his progress. Behind him a naked figure capered and beckoned with strips of its own partially flensed skin, bloated tongue lolling from its decayed horse's head. The splintery length of wood jutting from its arse clattered along the stone with a merry sound of castanets as it danced after him.

The blood splashed and curled around his feet, dragging him to a stop and crawling up his body until he was encased in blood and he was drowning and he couldn't move and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't-

Sabhya's eyes flew open and he struggled to unlock his body and _breathe try breathe open mouth try breathe try breathe there yes breathe good . . . carefully . . . quietly . . . _He filled his lungs, trying not to gasp as he did so, and then, moving with the deliberate care of a drunkard, crawled out of his bed and crouched on the floor so the inevitable, uncontrollable shaking wouldn't jiggle the frame and rouse Amah.

While they were in hiding before leaving Antiva, Amah and Padre had expected and soothed his night-terrors, much as they had that other time – his mind flinched away and the shaking redoubled. On the passage to Ferelden the nightmares had abated. Perhaps it was because he was absorbed in learning the new language, perhaps it was all the new people and experiences, perhaps it was simply the sea air, but the dreams faded to a mere vague discomfort upon awakening, and Amah had finally relaxed her vigilance over his sleep during the trip inland.

But now, a few months after they settled into the little cottage in this strange, cold land, the nightmares began creeping back. Not every night, but regularly enough. Every time he would awaken paralyzed, unable to breathe, and then the shaking would set in as soon as his muscles relaxed.

And for the first time in his short life he didn't turn to Amah when he was hurting.

Obscurely, he felt that this was somehow a way he could do his part to help deal with this dizzying turn their lives had taken. At least, he wouldn't add to her burden. It was just silly bad dreams, but she would worry, so he would be brave and keep himself under control. There was no need to trouble her.

The shaking had passed, and Sabhya stood up. Cautiously, placing his feet with the greatest of care to move silently, he crept to the open doorway of Amah's room and stood listening until he could discern her quiet breathing.

He wondered if Padre would come soon.

It was just silly bad dreams, and he would be brave.

Still.

He would stay here a little longer, just to be sure Amah was all right.


	3. Interlude with Memory

**3. Interlude with Memory**

**.o0o.**

"Now, for an ailment of the skin, what might we use other than elfroot?" Amah folded her hands and waited.

"Aloe vera," Sabhya responded immediately.

"True, but you're highly unlikely to find aloe in these climes, any more than plantain leaves or heartsfire. What else?"

"Lavender oil. Mm, white oak bark. Mullein, burdock and yellow dock." Shutting his eyes, he called to mind the pages in Amah's journal. "Comfrey, slippery elm . . . otterweed . . . red clover-"

A brusque tap on his shoulder startled him.

"Open your eyes, young man. The person addressing you hasn't vanished simply because you're thinking of something. I'll thank you to remember your manners."

Embarrassed, he begged her pardon.

"Not to mention," put in Padre, tying his shirt around his waist and picking up a towel, "it makes it somewhat more difficult for anyone to sneak up on you." Amah half-turned and gave him A Look, and he held up the towel defensively and backed away. "Going, I am going."

"And not before time. The back of your neck is a disgrace, Paolo."

"My feelings would be wounded, _bruja vieja_, if I were not certain you were always correct."

"This is true."

With a wink at Sabhya, Padre ducked out the door and headed for the well.

Smiling at the byplay, the seven-year-old returned to his chain of thought. "Blacknut oil. Kelp, but that would only be on the seashore. Unless, would it work if it were dried and then soaked again?" He considered, thinking about adapting to changes. "Amah, what if-" He hesitated, marshalling his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Well, you can't always be sure the things you need will be growing where you are, can you?" he said slowly. "So, perhaps you could look for the things that grow _with_ them, or that grow in the same, the same way. That is . . . well, like otterweed. You only find it in very certain places, in a very certain kind of clay, so maybe the mosses that grow _with_ otterweed would help, or even the clay itself – if there's some, some _goodness_ in it that gives the plants their, what they need . . ." He trailed off, at a loss for words.

"Oh, _well_ done, child." The look of pride Amah bent upon him warmed him to the core, and he beamed back at her.

A splash and a dismayed yelp at the chilly water sounded outside, and he dissolved into giggles as Amah's lips twitched in amusement.

**.o0o.**

Placid compared to the lively and colorful Antivan market days, by the tiny village's standards the square was positively bustling. Amah had already sold her stock of herbs and remedies, and was now making the rounds for their own needs while Padre and Sabhya munched apples and watched the activity from the sidelines.

"There, the couple by the egg-lady." Padre cut a chunk of fruit and passed it to Sabhya on the point of his knife. "They have the look of people who have been together a long time – see how they anticipate each other's moves without even looking? Like a well-rehearsed dance. But I would say they have just had a fight."

Sabhya swallowed his mouthful. "Why?" He watched the two examine the vendor's wares, looking for whatever cues Padre had picked up. "They don't look upset."

"Look at the way she pulls her elbow in, and stays so slightly turned away from him no matter what, refusing to make any contact. Now, if she stood that way on both sides, I would have thought she was being haughty, but it is only on the side where he stands. And her shoulders are too open for her to be in fear of him. No, my guess is they have a difference of opinion, and she has yet to forgive him." He shifted on the crate where he sat, propping his boot against another, and shot a sidelong look at his son. "Then again, she may just have a rash."

"I think she'd be standing differently then."

"Perhaps she is hiding a dead chicken under her shawl? Mm, on the whole, I would bet on the first theory, but who knows what their history really is? Context is all."

Sabhya watched the two, imagining various scenarios that could have instigated their behavior. "It's like with Melda," he commented. "When she brought us here from Highever, I was scared of her because she seemed so angry. I was sure she hated me and I couldn't understand why. Then I saw she was that way with everyone. So I watched her, and I saw how she looked so uncomfortable all the time, and I thought maybe she was in pain, but that didn't seem quite right. It's more like she just hated being where she was and so she was on edge all the time."

Padre chuckled. "Dalish love their forests, dwarves love their caverns. The only, and I mean _only_ place Melda is happy is on the deck of a ship, preferably out of sight of land. She left this village for the sea when she was little older than you. Bringing you here was a tremendous favor." He chewed thoughtfully. "You see though, why you need to look – _really_ look – to understand the people around you. You take in all the clues: what they say, what they do not say, what they do and do not, and you build the picture from there to make your judgment."

"But-" Sabhya thought about the taciturn sailor. "The whole picture isn't always easy to see."

"No. When all is said and done, in the end all you can do is listen to this-" he gently tapped Sabhya's forehead with the butt of the knife, "and trust this." A tap to his chest.

"What if you make the wrong choice?"

A shadow passed over Padre's face as he picked up a fresh apple. "Then you learn and you move on, _mijo_." He sank the knife into the fruit. "And you try to find a way to forgive yourself."

**.o0o.**

"Two – three – four – five – six – seven – _eight! Eight!_" Sabhya did a triumphant little dance and Padre clapped his hands.

"Magnificent! One for each year – a grand omen! Once more for me-" He flicked his wrist to send his stone skipping over the pond. "One – two – three – fo – three. Well, that was substandard."

"You can try again," Sabhya offered. Padre held up his hands.

"No, no, I bow to the master. _For now . . ._" he added menacingly and seated himself by the remains of their lunch. Sabhya dropped to his stomach nearby, and for a time the two enjoyed the weak sunshine in companionable silence.

"Padre?"

"Hm?"

"Could you tell me about Madre, please?"

Paolo studied the dark head thoughtfully. "Certainly. What would you like to hear?"

"Oh . . . anything." He glanced up. "Did she like jewelry?"

"That she did." Paolo smiled reminiscently. "But not the rings and necklaces of the Antivan nobility. Bangles of silver and copper, never less than four on each wrist and ankle. She made her own music with them when she danced, and yet could move as silently as a shadow if she desired."

Sabhya brightened, nodding. "I remember the sound – clink, ching, click. And a smell – warm, spicy, smoky . . ."

"Sandalwood. From the boxes where she kept her clothing and the incense she burned, always a hint of the fragrance on her skin. That you can recall even that much-" He shook his head in wonder.

"Her hair was thick and black, and fell to her knees when she let it loose. Dark skin, like bitter chocolate and cinnamon. Tall, proud and tall like her aunt, your Amah, but where your Amah is like an ageless, implacable sequoia, Dayo was a cypress dancing into the sky. She had such a joy in all she did.

"Her father was the leader of her people, and she came away with me. She was teacher, friend, lover, comfort and laughter. She shared with me the two greatest gifts I could have ever dreamed: herself and then you yourself. She completed me, and I all unknowing that I was not yet whole."

Sabhya nodded gravely. "_Just_ like me and Amah."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Not . . . altogether . . ." Paolo managed in a strangled voice.

"No?"

Suspicious of the innocent tone, Paolo peered at the boy, whose apparent absorption in a nearby dandelion was betrayed by his quivering lips, and he flung his head back in a shout of laughter which Sabhya joined.

"Ha! Rascal! To treat your poor Padre so! See, I punish you by taking the last honey cake all for myself." He suited action to words and stuffed the cake into his mouth.

Sabhya grinned and kicked his feet a few times in thought.

"Do I look like Madre at all?"

No response.

"Padre?"

Paolo held up a finger.

"Wai'. Ftiwl pummiffing 'oo . . ." He swallowed with an effort. "There," he coughed, "let that be a lesson to you."

"Yes, ser." Sabhya handed him the cider with dancing eyes.

"Whom do you resemble?" Paolo corked the jug after taking a deep draught and eyed his son, tracing his goatee with thumb and forefinger.

"Overall you take after my side. Neither the Bailadores nor the Rebosas grow giants. Dark hair all around, so that is not definitive. We can only hope you escape the fate of the Rebosas and actually keep it. This proud beak-" he tweaked Sabhya's nose "- is entirely my doing. But you have her beautiful hands."

He put a finger under his son's chin. "And every time you turn these speaking eyes on the world, there she is. Those are hers and yours alone."

Sabhya considered that, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

"So . . . even though I never knew her, it's like I'm seeing everything with her. I like that." He smiled out across the water with such a look of his mother that Paolo felt his heart would burst.

_Ah, Dayo, see what we made, you and I, this precious marvel? Your thrice-damned brother and his insane vendetta – send all your spirits and Creators to help keep our child safe until I can settle with him once and for all . . ._

"On your feet, _mijo_. If we do not return before sundown we will both face your Amah's wrathful gaze."


	4. Devastation

**4. Devastation**

**.o0o.**

Amah was weeping.

In all his life he had absolutely no recollection of such a thing ever happening.

Amah, who was iron wrapped in love bound in steel, was seated with her back to the doorway, gripping her elbows and bowed over the table. A letter lay open and disregarded on the floor beside her as her shoulders jerked with each wrenching sob.

It was as incomprehensible as if the yew tree were growing upside down or if the dove in the eaves were screeching a peacock's call.

Wanting to run to her, both for her and his own reassurance, but instinctively knowing the proud woman's humiliation if she were to be discovered in such a state, he retreated noiselessly and made his way to the garden, his mind spinning. What could possibly be wrong? Had he done something terrible, all unknowing? Surely any transgressions would merit a scolding, not . . . this. His pace slowed until he came to a standstill, realization dawning.

There was only one thing that could have broken her so.

_Papi . . ._

His stomach dropped as the foundation of his world crumbled and fell away. The needs to vomit and to scream shook him equally, warring in his throat until the impulses retreated, unspent. He took a few paces forward and stopped again, staring numbly at the leaves brushing his ankles. After a glacial moment, he settled down to his knees and began tending the herb beds with exquisite care. Methodically, he pinched and worked and crumbled the soil, running it unthinkingly through his fingers over and over until the shadows lengthened into twilight.

When he left in answer to Amah's call, unnoticed behind him the dirt steamed faintly in the cool air, the thin haze of green creeping across its surface destined to fade under the morning frost.

Inside, reddened lids the only sign of her recent storm, Amah gently explained that Padre and several others of his crew had been ambushed while scouting and that none had survived the attack. He nodded, unspeaking, and when he reached for her she drew him onto her lap, where he clung as if he were a baby and not a great lad of nine.

It occurred to him to wonder, in a distant way, why he wasn't crying. The jagged boulder of pain in his chest might have been eased, and he certainly felt no shame at the idea. Perhaps Amah had already shed tears enough for the both of them, and none were left for him.

Or maybe his own had been killed along with everything else back in the villa.

Hours later, he lay unsleeping in his bed up in the loft. Something niggled at the back of his mind, a midge whining around the mountain of his grief. _That letter . . ._ There had been no sign of it. He shut his eyes and pictured it. The paper creamy-brown against the woven rug, black lettering, blocky & childlike, Melda's laborious hand, the shapes of the words – layer by layer he rebuilt it in his mind, trying to make out what it had said.

_"Sorrow to tell you . . . made landfall and P headed to the arranged site. He was no fool & took well-armed men. When they did not return by dawn we followed & found they were ambushed & slaughtered. By all signs P had been flayed alive. Terrible things had been done to all. I now understand why P ran & hid. Rather I do not understand how he ever stopped running. All debts now paid. Fair winds. M."_

He turned his head and stared dry-eyed into the darkness.

Later, the nightmares returned tenfold.


	5. Gift

**5. Gift**

**.o0o.**

"Amah, I have a present for you." Sabhya put away the last dish and took her hand. "Please, come and sit at the table."

"Do you, now? What a lovely surprise!" The woman smiled and complied with his eager tug, seating herself in the chair he pulled out for her. "Thank you, child." Curious, she watched as he placed a fat beeswax pillar candle on a saucer and poured a little water into the dish.

"Now." He came to stand next to her and reached for the saucer. "Watch this, please."

Gently touching the water, Sabhya took a moment to compose himself, then dipped his fingertips into the liquid even as he dipped into the pool of living energy within himself. _Cool. Chill. Cold. Crystal. _There was a faint creaking sound as he drew his fingers up the candle's sides to envelop it in a thick sheath of clear ice, and he was dimly aware of Amah's sharp intake of breath.

_Grow. Stretch. This way. Now go here. Like this. _Crystalline ropes and branches wrapped up and around the pillar in the wake of his touch, his intangible encouragement working with the ice's natural tendencies to spread. The water now used up, he continued shaping with the mana itself. _See – be like this. Water. Freeze. Crystal. Grow. _Whenever the singing, rushing exhilaration within threatened to surge out of control, he automatically brought himself back to _stillness_, just as he would slow his pace when an overfull cup's contents rocked too close to the brim. _Up. Grow. Over. Knot. This way. _Carefully, he began shaping a canopy, blowing on it gently to etch little ferns and twists of frost, until the candle was fully enclosed in a web worked of icy branches.

_Now. _Sabhya paused, then delicately stretched his finger through an opening to touch the wick. He _pulled_ the mana through_ just a thread, just the tip, tiny pinpoint, hold it, spin it, faster, faster, friction, warm heat hot NOT A SPARK control it control it softly hot hot hot hot-_

The black curl crept into life, blue to amber to gold.

He withdrew his hand and relaxed, absently rubbing his thumb over his fingertip as he jubilantly watched his creation shimmer with refracted light. "Do you like it?" Sabhya turned to Amah and his elated smile faded.

Amah looked . . . _old_. She was staring at the glowing little sculpture, lines of weary care drawn on her face in bleak relief.

"We should have gone to Rivain," she whispered.

"I – Amah, I'm sorry, I – I'm – " he stammered, dismayed. "I won't – I'll make it go away." As he reached for the candle in distress, Amah came to herself and intercepted his hand.

"Oh, Sabhya, no. Forgive me, child." She clasped both his hands between her own and drew him around to face her. "I was only surprised. It's beautiful and I love it more than I can say."

He returned her gaze uncertainly and she nodded, cupping a warm palm around his cheek reassuringly. "And I cannot express how _proud_ I am. This talent is a precious and wonderful thing. My sister, your grandmother, had the gift, and our mother's mother was a shaman of great power, the Spirit Walker for all her people. To see it manifest again in you is a thing of joy." The loving sincerity was undeniable, and Sabhya relaxed as Amah continued.

"Bear in mind, though, we must live quietly, and others often fear or hate what they themselves do not possess or understand. You remember how the boy Flyn behaved?" Sabhya winced and nodded. "He was unlettered, and so derided you for being able to read when he himself could not. Now, a person may learn to read, but think how it is when a talent cannot be learned by all and sundry."

"They get jealous." The boy spoke soberly. "Scared of what's different. I know. And I do keep it to myself."

Amah brushed back his hair. "Remember this, Sabhya, and believe it always: this is a gift, a thing to cherish as much as a beautiful singing voice, or mighty strength, or grace for dancing. Never, _ever_ allow yourself to be convinced it makes you of less worth – or indeed of greater worth – than the next person. It simply goes to make you who you are, no more, no less. Now, come."

She turned to face the shimmering little ice-tree, drawing Sabhya close to her side and resting her cheek on his head.

"We should enjoy this while it lasts."


	6. Lightfoot and BringsJoy

**6. Lightfoot and Brings-Joy**

**.o0o.**

The clean scent of wintergreen helped to mask the comfrey's far less pleasant odor as Amah rewrapped Sabhya's arm for the night. To have clambered the length and breadth of the roof as nimbly as a monkey while assisting Garm the Thatcher only to fall over a bucket directly upon his descent was just . . . ridiculous. Certainly Garm had found it hysterically funny. A rueful smile turned into a wince, and Sabhya drained the last of his tisane, savoring the astringent willow bark. It would have been a good deal more amusing if he hadn't sprained his elbow so badly as a result.

"Almost finished," Amah said. She smoothed the edges of the binding. "There. I'll take that if you're done."

"Thank you, Amah." He handed her the mug and tried to find a comfortable position on the pallet they had made up to spare him the climb to his bed in the loft. It was no easy task with his arm flashing painfully at the least movement, and Amah returned to help. When he was settled, she remained kneeling beside him, stroking his hair soothingly.

"It will feel better in the morning after a good rest. Relax, now, and I shall tell you a tale to bring sleep along."

She began to speak and Sabhya closed his eyes to let the lilting music of her voice take him back to one of his earliest memories, of sitting in her lap, enraptured, on the terrace where the bougainvillea nodded in the warm breezes, watching Amah's graceful gestures as she recounted his favorite of all her tales.

**.o0o.**

A herd of deer lived hidden deep within a primeval forest, and of them all a doe named Brings-Joy was most cherished. Long of leg and clean of line, her hide was black as ebony and her hooves shone like polished jet. Her eyes were deep pools of night sky, and her heart was a fountain of delight that she shared with all who knew her.

"She is ours, and we love her," nodded the hinds as they watched Brings-Joy run past, and they returned to their grazing.

"She is ours, and we love her," laughed the fawns as they watched Brings-Joy run past, and they returned to their capering.

"She is ours, and we love her," bugled the bucks as they watched Brings-Joy run past, and they returned to their sparring.

"She is ours, and we love her," proclaimed her brother, the proud buck Fireheart, and he reared in salute as Brings-Joy ran past.

"She is ours, and we love her," thought her sire, the great stag Wisest, and he returned to watching over his herd.

Of all things in life, Brings-Joy was happiest when she could run, to stretch her long legs and feel the life surging through her blood and her breath, and to feel the earth and the air singing with her in the rush of motion. Nevertheless, constrained by the massive trees all around, she was constantly obliged to shorten her stride, and something deep inside her increasingly yearned to run freely and reach her true potential.

One day a wandering roebuck called Lightfoot chanced upon the herd's territory in the course of his travels. Stocky in build, colored in russet and chestnut, he was as different to them as day is to night, yet the more time Brings-Joy spent with him the more certain she became that he was the one with whom she could run freely.

"I would go away with you to run in the world," she said shyly when Lightfoot at last came to bid her farewell.

Lightfoot bounded for joy, the white dapples on his flanks flashing like happy laughter in the sunlight.

"I would give you the world if you run with me," he told her.

There was a great outcry of dismay in the herd when Lightfoot and Brings-Joy went before her sire Wisest to ask for his blessing.

"But she is ours, and we love her," gasped the hinds.

"But she is ours, and we love her," cried the fawns.

"But she is ours, and we love her," snorted the bucks.

"Who is this interloper," raged her brother Fireheart, "this stranger who is not our kind, who dares to sully my sister, who presumes to steal away our precious Brings-Joy?" He shook his antlers and tore at the ground. "Say the word and I will kill him. She is _ours_!"

The great stag Wisest quelled the uproar with a stamp. Looking into Brings-Joy's eyes, he saw a depth of contentment and determination which made him proud even as he was saddened to recognize its lack until then. He turned the weight of his gaze upon Lightfoot.

"I see my daughter has made up her mind. You tell me why I should give my blessing, for she is our most cherished, and although our lives are better for having known her, still we will be grieved for her loss."

Lightfoot flicked an ear and regarded Wisest steadily.

"I love her," he said. "And I am hers."

At that, Wisest humbly bowed his mighty head and commanded that the two be allowed to depart in peace.

So Brings-Joy went away with Lightfoot to run together in the boundless wide world. To her delight and that of all she met, the more she ran, the longer and more graceful her stride became, until her every movement sang with poetry and the joy of creation itself.

When at last, as these things happen, even the wide world became too confining for her, she bade a loving farewell to Lightfoot and leapt from her mortal shell to run freely beyond the sky. And Lightfoot grieved at her loss, but cherished the knowledge that his life was the better for having known her.

She still runs, leaping the clouds and scattering the stars, her hide the dark of the night sky and her hooves glinting with moonlight. Her eyes are filled with boundless joy, and her heart is filled with the warmth of the lives she loved and who loved her in return.

**.o0o.**

"Thank you, Amah." Sabhya murmured drowsily.

"You're welcome. Now it's time to sleep."

She gently stroked his head.

"Amah . . ."

"This is not sleeping, Sabhya."

"Hunters got Lightfoot in the end."

The fingers paused, then continued their caress.

"Yes, child."

He listened to the breathy crackle of the fire for a time.

"Amah?"

"Yes, child?"

"Do you think they're running together again?"

"Never doubt it."

He nodded and let the drowsiness pull him under.

For once, when the nightmares encroached, he found himself running freely away in the company of a pair of deer, which regarded him with eyes filled with laughter and joy before leaping into a night sky cascading with stars.


	7. Wasteland

**7. Wasteland**

**.o0o.**

It began with a spoon.

"Sabhya, would you hand me the long mixing spoon, please?"

The eleven-year-old set aside his paring knife and the root vegetable he was cleaning and obligingly fetched the implement. "Here you are."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." They continued working to the accompaniment of Amah's humming.

"Sabhya, would you please hand me the long mixing spoon?" Thinking she had dropped it, he turned to see it on the table next to her.

"Do you mean this?" He leaned over to pick it up, and she accepted it with a shake of her head.

"My mind must be in the clouds today. Thank you, child."

He smiled at her and resumed his task.

"Have you seen the long mixing spoon, Sabhya?"

It was lying directly in front of her.

He blinked, wondering if she was teasing, and hesitantly reached to indicate it. "Right here?" He was prepared to join in the laugh at himself, but Amah looked down with every evidence of surprise.

"Oh. Yes . . . thank you."

She regarded the spoon without picking it up, a slight frown of puzzlement creasing her forehead.

**.o0o.**

Initially, the headaches were little more than a mild annoyance to be ignored or remedied with a tisane. As the weeks passed, they grew in strength and frequency, at times striking with a blinding intensity that stopped her in her tracks and rendered her incapable of doing more than lie on her bed and suffer. The forgetfulness became more prevalent, along with a sporadic weakness in her limbs, so the boy quietly assumed most of the household chores. Amah's reluctance to involve outsiders in their business was reinforced by the fact that her own skills tended to outstrip anything the remote village had to offer in the way of doctoring, and she turned aside Sabhya's tentative suggestions that they seek advice.

**.o0o.**

The seizure, though brief, left them both deeply shaken and concealing a sense of dread from each other.

**.o0o.**

"We're going to need to find a way for you to study your Gift properly." Amah watched the candle that he had lit during an effort to describe just how it felt to guide the mana within himself. "If we were in Rivain you would be apprenticed to a shaman. In Ferelden, though . . . the Chasind, perhaps? I don't know enough of their ways to say. We would need to find them, approach them, and . . . would they welcome our lineage or see us as a rival clan? Or . . . what if they were already allied with _him_?"

She accepted the tisane Sabhya handed her.

"Kinloch Tower where the mage kind are gathered together is said to have a formidable library for the Circle's study." She shook her head and sipped as Sabhya brightened at the mention of books.

"A library? Like a university?"

"I doubt it could possibly be anything approaching the great Library of Antiva, but it would certainly be many times greater than Paolo's collection. . ."

She trailed off, gazing at the candle's flame, and the boy imagined the literary bounty while he waited for her to continue. After a time, her brow creased.

"What were we talking about?"

Sabhya touched her arm. "The library at Kinloch Tower," he prompted gently.

"Ah? The Tower? At Lake Calenhad . . ." She patted his hand absently, then squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples. "I . . . believe I need to lie down, child."

He helped her to stand and get to her bed, and then he returned to extinguish the candle.

**.o0o.**

Between the near-constant pain and the bouts of weakness, she became mostly bedridden in a frighteningly short space of time. Her mind wandered more frequently, often mistaking him for Padre or even his mother. On at least two of the latter occasions, she addressed him at length in her native Rivaini dialect, of which he knew the barest handful of words. He paid close attention, and later wrote it out phonetically and committed it to memory. Whatever it meant, it was something Amah said, and therefore important and to be cherished.

It was unsettling, but at least she recognized him in some way. It would have been unbearable if Amah had looked at him and seen only a stranger.

After a particularly bad day, in which she had scarcely been aware of his presence through the debilitating pain in her head, he cleared away her untouched meal and sat in his accustomed place by her bed. Under the compress, her skin was drawn and sunken with an underlying grey cast. He listened to the harsh pants of her sleeping breath, and gathered her fingers into his own.

"Amah, please," he whispered. He bent over to rest his cheek on their hands. "Please don't leave me."

**.o0o.**

He buried her under the yew tree.

It took him most of the day to dig the grave, alternating between using a spade and using his Gift to heat or freeze the soil into manageable consistency. Movement in the dirt where he thrust his fingers might have been roots writhing away under his touch, but could as easily have been earthworms disturbed in their blind journeys by his equally unseeing labor. Before he climbed out, he ran his hands over the walls and bottom, encouraging the faint pigments in the soil to rearrange into ghosts of the spirals and intricate knotted geometric patterns Amah favored.

Perhaps he could have sought assistance from someone in the village, but that would certainly have entailed having Andrastian beliefs forced upon them, beliefs in which he had been unable to find any sense and which Amah frankly scorned. So he cleaned her, and wrapped her in the best blanket, and awkwardly brought her out to give her mortal shell back to the earth and to Creation.

Perhaps he should have used the handcart, for all that she was shockingly light of weight, to spare her the indignity of dragging heels. The truth was he was unwilling to relinquish his last opportunity to cling to her with all his might.

He laid her in the grave and tidied her from his clumsy handling, trying to smooth away the lines of care and pain that had become etched in her face. Before covering her, he placed the map of Thedas Padre had drawn for him into her arms, and then drew the blanket up.

He closed his eyes to fill in the grave.

He sat long into the starless Ferelden night with a hand resting on the freshly turned earth, feeding a tiny continuous trickle of warmth into the mound. He was utterly alone. Every tie to his roots, everyone who truly knew him had disappeared, and the world encircled him like an endless salt desert, barren, empty, insupportable.

_Paolo Luz de Bailador y Rebosa. Padre._

_Amalavangitra. Pure song of the earth. Amah._

_Dayo. Joy arrives. Madre. _

_Eduardo. _

_Esperanza. _

_The gauchos and horses and all the estancia._

_Paolito Donato de Bailador, never to be spoken of again. Just Sabhya Amell._

_Why am I left?_

_I don't know what to do. _

_They gave up everything for me._

He would have to make some decisions, very soon. But not now.

Not right now.

_I want them back._


	8. Arrival

**8. Arrival**

**.o0o.**

Lashav rasped a thumb across his jaw as he regarded the solemn little boy.

"If not for the respect I bore for your gran-aunt I'd not even be considering this, look you."

"I understand, ser."

"Hah, 'ser' is it?" The peddler tilted his head back and pursed his lips. "I'm not a passenger service, look you."

"No, ser, but I don't take up much space. And on the way I could do the cooking and setting camp, and help with Tonker." At the sound of its name, the ox flicked an ear and blew a friendly bubble.

"Hm. So in exchange for letting you ride along as far as my route marches with your destination, I have my pick of the contents of your cottage."

"_After _I've packed a few personal things. Yes, please."

"And what's to prevent me from just helping myself anyway?" Lashav dropped his gaze from the clouds to the boy. "Eh? What keeps me from robbing you and leaving you for the wolves and worse?"

Sabhya was quiet a moment. "Nothing." He met the man's eyes. "Nothing except your word."

"Hah, yes, there is that. Fair enough. Well then." The peddler spit into his palm and held it out, grinning when the lad immediately followed suit and clasped hands. "We have a bargain."

"Thank you."

**.o0o.**

His twelfth birthday passed unremarked during the weeks on the road. Accustomed as he was to the solitary life, Lashav proved an undemanding companion and the miles trudged past in a seamless flow of indifference. Sabhya made himself useful where he could, offered conversation when it seemed welcome, and observed his surroundings and Lashav's occasional transactions with desultory interest. The haze of unreality encompassing his world thinned slowly but inexorably, and if Lashav ever noticed the occasional moments when grief lurched from hiding to clutch him with a throat-searing pain, no comment was made.

**.o0o.**

Sabhya hefted the bag containing his meager possessions.

"Thank you again, ser."

"Hah, 'ser' is it?" Lashav snorted. "It was a bargain well kept, look you, with cooking and mending to boot. And I'll not say the company was unwelcome."

"You're very kind to say so." The boy smiled, patting Tonker's flank.

Lashav looked toward the lake and back, measuring Sabhya in a series of sharp glances. He drew breath for a comment, then stopped and shook his head.

"Walk with luck, lad." With a sharp whistle through his teeth, the peddler snapped the reins across the ox's back. Sabhya stepped aside as the cart jolted into movement and stood watching until they were well on their way before heading down the hill.

Not for the first time, he considered his choice. Perhaps the Chasind would have been more in keeping with his heritage, but he hadn't the least idea where or how to find them, even assuming a tribe would make him welcome. At least he knew where Kinloch was, and that other mages were gathered together there for training in their Gift. It would be nice, he thought wistfully, to be able to talk freely to others who would understand how it felt. And then if they would accept him for training, once he graduated or whatever they called it here and was grown up maybe he could go to Rivain and find his mother's and Amah's people and make a home there. Assuming they would want him-

_One thing at a time. You're making yourself more anxious than you were already._

He was tempted to stop at the lone inn at the shore, but, shy of the curious glances of the patrons outside, made his way directly to the dock. The garrulous ferryman, after a moment's surprise, ushered him into the rowboat and pushed off. His unrelenting flow of chatter seemed to require no participation from a second party, so Sabhya let the man's voice wash over him and focused on controlling his nerves as the farther shore approached.

The ferryman held the boat steady as Sabhya scrambled out, handed over his bag, and pushed off immediately.

_What an odd look he just gave me. Is it because I'm alone?_

_It was like the way Lashav looked right before he left. _

With a twinge of uneasiness, he turned to study the Tower looming ahead.

The approach was empty, two templars by the single massive doorway the only signs of life.

Sabhya's breath caught as he noted the reinforcements on the _exterior_ of the closed door, the body language of the guards with their alertness focused _inward_.

_The ferry doesn't remain on this side any longer than it takes to offload._

His gaze traveled up the massive stonework.

Bars on the windows.

_Oh, Amah. This is no place of learning._

One of the templars began to walk toward him.

_It's a prison._

"You, boy!"

_What have I done?_

"What's your business here?"

His muscles twitched backwards in an abortive flight reflex. For a wild moment, he considered diving into the water to take his chances with whatever foulness lurked in the depths.

_All for nothing . . . Padre . . . I don't . . . too late . . . I can't . . . _

The templar stopped in front of him, fists on hips.

"Well?"

_What else can I do?_

He took a deep breath, forcing the turmoil of fear and anguished guilt to a standstill, and composed himself. Holding his hand out to the side – _see, I am no threat, no threat at all - _he summoned a little ball of frost into his palm.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, ser," he said as the templar stiffened and dropped a gauntleted hand to the hilt of his sword.

"My name is Sabhya Amell."

The frost melted and dripped through his fingers.

"I believe I'm supposed to be here."

_As still as stone . . ._

**.o0o.**


	9. Drums

_Many thanks to Shakespira for the 'timely' consultation. ;)_

* * *

**9. Drums**

**.o0o.**

"I am curious," Zevran said delicately. He topped off their glasses and leaned back. "One would have expected your Amah to have made more of a point of warning you away from the Tower."

Sabhya retrieved his wine with a murmur of thanks.

"Yes. I have thought about that myself." He sighed. "Understand, though, that we have the benefit of the insider's view. Does the general populace actually realize what the conditions and practices inside the Tower are? Oh, they know what the Chantry tells them to believe, and they know the fearsome mages are sent away, but beyond that? Out of sight, out of mind, particularly if such a thing never directly impacts their own lives. And Melda's village was so very small and remote, not even meriting a mark on the maps or named other than 'home' by the residents."

"Doubtless that was one reason your Padre sent you there."

"Oh, yes." The little mage tilted his glass toward the light. "The need to stay hidden from our personal enemy subsumed everything else. I think – hindsight is marvelous, is it not? I have wondered if perhaps her judgment had begun to be affected in small ways long before the more obvious symptoms. Perhaps she would have moved us to Rivain, otherwise. Or, maybe not. Everything changed so quickly." Eyes hooded, he took a sip of wine. "Padre would have known more of the Tower, of that I am certain, but then – he never knew it would matter. Well."

He rubbed his thumb across a drop of moisture creeping along the curve of his glass.

"It was not unrelentingly bad, you know. There were – well, 'compensation' is too generous a word when one's free will has been abrogated, but there were bright spots. If the walls were impenetrable, at least the ceilings were high, and there was the _library_." His face softened and Zevran had to smile at the reverent tone. "It was both a refuge and a revelation, a place without boundaries. I would spend hours on end there, far beyond the demands of class assignments."

"Ah." Zevran shot him a sly look. "And tucked away deep in the stacks, no doubt there would have been so many opportunities for lurid encounters."

"Oh, yes," Sabhya said demurely. "I always found it quite difficult to get back to studying afterward, though."

"Indeed, it would be."

"The pages stuck together so."

Zevran blinked, then grinned and mimed a fencer's gesture of concession. "Point to you, my good Warden."

Sabhya chuckled and returned the gesture.

**.o0o.**

**.o0o.**

Greagoir watched the boy take a shaky sip from the cup of cider Enchanter Wynne handed him. _His color looks better now._ It was never easy with children; he expected everything ranging from tears to tantrums. But at the look of unmitigated, paralyzed horror on this one's face as Irving approached him with the outsized lancet the Knight Commander had very nearly turned, blade drawn, to face whatever abomination had surely appeared in the room. It was somehow worse that the boy – Amell, his name – didn't struggle against Ser Geatly's grip on his wrist but went perfectly still, his haunted eyes and the pulse hammering in his throat the only outward reaction as Irving cut him and drew his blood.

_Something ugly in that one's past._

Wynne pasted a healing poultice over the incision while Irving sealed the beaker and handed it off to his assistant.

"Please –" Amell faltered, swallowed, and tried again. "May I ask what you're – why you did that?"

The First Enchanter chuckled like a raven with a bone caught in its throat. "Did you fear we were monsters preparing a tasty snack for ourselves?"

The boy remained silent, his eyes flicking to the crimson-filled bottle and back, and Irving looked offended.

"A sample of all apprentices' blood is taken," he said. "It is then preserved and secured within a phylactery."

"Then if you decide to turn apostate and try a runner, we use it to hunt you down," Ser Geatly put in. Greagoir said nothing, but narrowed his eyes at Geatly who wisely, if belatedly, shut up. The boy, meanwhile, thought it over with a puzzled frown.

"So . . . you cast a, a tracking spell with it. And it works because it's . . . _part_ of the person you're tracking?"

"I can see you're a bright lad." Irving spoke indulgently.

"But . . . isn't blood magic forbidden?" Amell looked at Greagoir for confirmation.

"It certainly is."

"We _never_ tolerate such dark practices, young man," Wynne added primly.

"It's a spell, though?"

"Of a very particular sort, yes."

"So, a kind of magic."

"Yes."

"Using blood as the primary focus."

"Ye-es."

"But not blood magic?"

"No!"

Greagoir bit the inside of his cheek, knowing he should discourage the dangerous line of thought, but frankly enjoying Wynne's discomfiture. Judging by the faint snigger from the direction of the assistant he wasn't alone.

"I'm sorry, could you explain the distinc-"

"You're far too young to comprehend these things." Wynne cut him off. "Let it go."

"Yes, child," Irving added. "These matters are above you; trust your elders."

Amell looked utterly taken aback, giving Greagoir the absurd impression that no one had ever dismissed him thus, and then ducked his head.

"I beg your pardon," he said quietly. "I was just trying to understand. I meant no offense."

Irving patted him on the head.

"You'll fit in fine, my child," he said patronizingly. "Come along now and we'll get you settled into your new life."

**.o0o.**

The library was possessed of an environment as distinctive as that of any seashore or forest: the fragrance of parchment, leather and ink; the susurration of quiet conversation and turning pages; the intermittent drone of a lecturer punctuated by the occasional _krmpfh _of a muffled explosion from the practice rooms. Sabhya delicately brushed his fingertips along the books' spines until he found a likely tome to add to his selections, then headed for his preferred alcove.

He found the out of the way spot already occupied by two elves perhaps his own age, a girl with a foot propped on the table and a boy lounging on the floor with his arm hooked over her knee. The two glanced up at his approach, kohl-lined, startlingly blue eyes sharpening with interest, and they regarded each other in silence for a moment. _The – Suranas, was it? Brother and sister, twins. Tall for elves, but I suppose everyone's going to be tall where I'm concerned._ They were virtually identical, with porcelain fair skin and gleaming black hair, beautiful and mildly androgynous.

"So? Getting your eyeful?" The girl draped her arm over the back of her chair and the boy stretched out his leg as she spoke, mirroring each other's pose exactly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Isn't it a marvel—"

"—how knife-ears all look alike?"

Sabhya considered the pair. _They don't seem all that hostile. Challenging, maybe._

"No, I wouldn't necessarily say that," he said thoughtfully. "There are such a variety of knives, you see. Straight, serrated, curved, leaf blade, triangular, stiletto, wedge, chisel, planar concave. Any number of lengths. Some even fold over."

They stared at him, then she wrinkled her nose and her brother grinned.

"You're having us—"

"—on, aren't you?"

"Well, yes, I'm afraid so."

"He gives as good as he gets."

"How refreshing." The boy hooked a chair with his foot and pushed it in Sabhya's direction. "Jaleem Surana."

"Nereinye Surana, me."

"Commonly referred to as 'the Suranae.' Which was her idea."

"I thought that was one of yours."

"Was it? What a great idea."

"Twit."

"Bitch."

"Sabhya Amell." Sabhya smiled and sat. "Those are Tevinter names, yes?"

"Not that it means anything here."

"Tower-ter, now. Here." Nereinye tossed him a packet which proved to contain sugared walnuts. "Nicked them from Ser Boward."

"Who nicked them from Kinnon."

"Who nicked them from the stores."

"Go on." Seeing Sabhya's hesitation at mention of the templar, Jaleem picked out one of the sweets and held it to his mouth. "Open wide."

_One challenge after another._ He complied, and Jaleem deliberately placed the treat on Sabhya's tongue.

"There you go." Sugar-sticky fingers tapped his lips. "Good, yeh? You'll learn. You make what you can out of this place. Otherwise, why even bother?"

**.o0o.**

The six-year-old, huddled hiccupping and tear-streaked in the basement stairwell, felt someone sit on the step next to him and buried his face deeper into his arms. _Go away. Go away._

"Are you hurt?" Concern.

He shook his head, waiting for the inevitable jeers.

"Ah, good, I'm glad."

He peered over his arm to see a dark-haired older boy smiling at him with what appeared to be genuine kindness, and he hid his face again, sniffling.

There was a light touch on his shoulder, and when he peeked the boy was patiently holding out a handkerchief. After a moment, he accepted it, clutching the square of linen while he rubbed his face on his sleeve. The boy's lips twitched.

"My name's Sabhya."

He considered the statement, looked it over for possible malice, and eventually decided to give the boy the benefit of the doubt. "m'J'w'n," he mumbled.

"Jowan?"

Nod.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Jowan."

Nod.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Shrug. Sniffle.

Sabhya wrapped his arms around his knees, as relaxed as if he had nothing better to do than sit in a stairwell staring at nothing with someone like him.

"I hate it here," Jowan whispered wetly. The other turned his head to look at him with silent sympathy. "I can't do anything right. My letters go all wrong and the teacher makes faces. The templars clank and loom and they're scary and then I can't ever remember what I'm supposed to do. I can't make magic happen when I try, and I leak it when I shouldn't, and the other kids giggle and whisper at me. And they hide my things, and they take my dessert, and I'm just stupid and I want to _go home_ but, but," he drew a ragged breath, "Mumma said I'm a 'bomimation so Da threw me away at the Chantry and _they_ sent me _here _because I'm bad and everyone is so much better and stronger and smarter and_—"_

His face crumpled. "Nobody _wants_ me."

"I'm so sorry, Jowan." Sabhya rested his chin on his crossed arms and gazed at the reinforced basement door for a time. "Look at the way the hinge crosses the grain there," he said suddenly. "It looks like the strapping on a drum, doesn't it?"

"I guess. . ."

"It makes me think of a story my—I used to know, 'The Jackal and the Drum.'"

Pause.

"What's a jackal?"

"Hm? Oh, it's a kind of a wild dog that lives in places like Seheron or Par Vollen. It has a bushy tail and it's very clever. We could find a picture in one of the bestiaries if you like. Here, may I?" He recovered the handkerchief and gently mopped Jowan's face.

"This jackal was prowling in search of food, his belly so empty he thought it must be touching his spine, when a sudden booming noise made him leap in fright. He nearly ran away, but thinking it best to learn what terrible creature could be making such a dreadful shout, he crept carefully toward it, crouching and shivering each time the noise sounded.

"Under a tree he discovered an abandoned war drum, for there had once been a great battle nearby, and while he blinked at the strange object a nut fell from the tree and struck the drumhead. Boom!

"When the jackal recovered from the fright this gave him, he plucked up his courage and approached, and even struck it a few times himself, as proud as if were he making the sound. As he circled the instrument, he noted the rounded sides bound so securely with taut rawhide cords.

"'Surely this wondrous thing must be packed full of meat and fat,' he said to himself. 'How lucky I am!' And he set to gnawing his way into it. But, when he broke through after many hours of effort, he was bitterly disappointed to find it contained no feast of meat and fat, but was utterly empty.

"'Who would have imagined,' he grumbled as he carried away the rawhide drumhead, 'that anything with such a fearsome voice would be filled with so much nothing.'"

Jowan, tears forgotten while listening to the musical cadence Sabhya's voice had taken on during the tale, thought it over.

"I'm glad he could at least eat the rawhide."

"So am I." The older boy smiled. "You know, if you like, I'd be glad to help you with your studies."

"You _would?_"

"Of course."

"Why? I mean—" Jowan lowered his head and picked at a loose thread in his cuff. "I mean, why are you being so nice to me?"

"Should I not be?"

"No! I mean, yes, but . . . no one . . ." He picked harder.

"It makes me happy. And," Sabhya hesitated, and Jowan looked up in surprise at the unaccountably shy note. "You can be my little brother. That is, if you want to."

Speechless, Jowan nodded vigorously, and was rewarded with a smile like the sunrise.

"That's wonderful." Sabhya stood and offered his hand. "Why don't we go find that bestiary? And from now on, if people are being unkind to you, you can let me know and I'll see what I can do to make them stop."

"Really?"

"Isn't that what big brothers are supposed to do?"

Jowan looked at him doubtfully. "You aren't all that big, you know."

His new brother's eyes twinkled.

"I won't tell them if you won't."

**.o0o.**

He was falling. He was falling and the gibbering Broken-neck reached out and caught him in its putrescent dripping arms and flung him from side to side

_"Sabhya!"_

His eyes snapped open; just as he tried to draw a breath someone shook him, and he choked and coughed for a panicky moment.

Jowan was crouched beside his bed, gripping his shoulder and wide-eyed with fright.

"Jowan, wha-?"

"You weren't _breathing!_" His whisper was frantic. "I was coming back from the jakes and I passed your bed and you were so _still_ and you weren't _breathing_ and I thought you were _dead!"_

Sabhya pushed himself up on his elbow.

"Shh, shh, I'm all right," he whispered, touched because he knew perfectly well his bunk was nothing like en route to Jowan's. "I'm so sorry I frightened you. It's a, a thing that happens. Rather like snoring, only in reverse." _Don't start shaking, please don't start shaking yet._

"Really?"

"It's true. Since I was younger than you."

"But, what if a templar sees?" Jowan's whisper quivered. "They'll think you're dead and then they'll think you're possessed when you wake up and they'll Smite you and chop you into—"

_Oh, spirits and creators, he's probably right. _"It doesn't happen often. Listen, little brother, I've gone these many years and you're the only one who's noticed so far. I'll be fine, really."

"Well . . . o-kay."

"Now, you'd better get back to your bunk. Will you be all right?" _Please, please . . ._

"Yes. Are you cold? You're shivering."

"Maybe a little. Good night, Jowan. Thank you for watching out for me."

He waited until he was certain the little one had pattered away before rolling off the bed and carefully making his way to the bathing room, clenching every muscle and walking as if on broken glass. He was reeling by the time he made it to the far cubicle, where he leaned against the rough stone wall and let the shaking send him to his knees.

**.o0o.**

**.o0o.**

"There was the sense of belonging in some way to a community, however insular and dysfunctional. There were other mageborn all around. There were friends, lovers and rivals, mentors and the reverse, laughter and hurt, challenges and frustrations." He was silent a moment, and then sighed.

"Yet always, _always_, like the whiff from a nearby midden or the taste of vomit in the back of the throat, there was the certain knowledge that our lives were not our own. That we were watched at all times. That we had been leashed with our own lifeblood. That we were held to be no more than dangerous, worthless tools to be used or destroyed at will."

Zevran gazed at the fire, watching the shadows flapping amongst the branches of light.

"That we were nothing," he murmured.

Sabhya looked up.

"They were wrong," he said firmly.

**.o0o.**

* * *

_A/N: 'The Jackal and the Drum' is taken from __The Panchatantra__. _

_._


	10. Welcome

"_Desire is not merely about sex." The voice purrs behind him, silky and feminine._

"_I am aware, yes. Thank you." _

_- from __Mabari and Magus__, 'Reach'_

* * *

**10. Welcome**

**.o0o.**

The light had a greenish, brassy tone, and the air itself felt strangely heavy, a momentary clinging when he turned as though brushing across a pool of syrup. The landscape stretched oddly, warping perspective and rendering the distance into blurred streaks of false motion.

_This is . . ._

Not the customary helpless horror of his nightmares, nor the simple randomness of sleeping imagery. It felt more like that threshold between sleep and waking, where one might direct the course of a dream with conscious intent. Except – Sabhya toed the yellow grass and watched it part and sluggishly return upright.

_Not __**my**__ intent. _

He had crossed – or had been brought – fully into the Fade's unreality.

_How strange._ He could feel his Gift shimmering throughout his dream-self, as if his veins and bones now thrummed with pure mana rather than blood and marrow. _Which may well be the case. _He wondered what spell casting would be like in this situation, and looked at his palm, tempted.

_Better not. I might set the bunk on fire or something. _Regretfully, he resolved to discuss the experience with his mentor Ines, or perhaps with Senior Torrin before experimenting. At a flicker of motion in his periphery he turned.

A figure strolled toward him, the speed with which it approached greatly out of sync with its languid pace. It – no, _she_ came to a stop a few feet away and surveyed him from head to toe.

_Very much "she."_

The statuesque creature's ornaments accented rather than disguised her nakedness. A webwork of fine copper and silver chains wound about her neck and swung across her breasts, wrinkled pendants of freshwater pearls glinting against ebony skin. The series of scarves hanging low on her rounded hips were as sheer as steam rising from a teacup, an impression reinforced by the way that the transparent substance gently waved and clung to her legs with no apparent relation to her movements.

Horns with delicately coiled tips swept from her brow to either side and shone like polished abalone shell. The dark iridescence was echoed across the surface of her lower legs, where the increasingly pebbled texture was reminiscent of a skink's finely beaded hide. Violet and indigo flames rose from her skull, intricately woven as any exotic hair-dressing, to flutter smoking at the end like an untrimmed lamp wick. Her eyes were solid jet, centered, goat like, with a silvery spindle.

"Good evening." Sabhya broke the silence with wary courtesy. "Did you want something of me?"

The Desire Demon's lips curved upward. "That's my line." She tilted her head, eying him speculatively, and began to circle him with the grace of a reed undulating in a river's current. "I merely felt it was past time we met face to face."

"I'm sorry, should I know you?" He held his ground, turning his head to follow her progress.

"Mm, perhaps not as yet. Names are either meaningless or altogether too binding, don't you agree, Sabhya Amell?" Her voice was rich and insinuating, like a cat winding itself around his legs. "But I've been watching you for some time now, ever since you arrived at this thinly Veiled place. Do you wish to give me a name?"

"No, thank you." He switched to look over his other shoulder as she continued her circuit. "I wouldn't like to presume."

She chuckled. "Very politic of you." A movement in the grass drew his eye as she came to a halt before him, and he realized she was possessed of a tail, dark as her eyes but otherwise disturbingly reminiscent of attenuated, naked vertebrae. She noticed the direction of his gaze and twisted to give him a better look.

"Do you like it?" She spoke coyly.

"It . . . suits you."

She ran her hand over her backside and slowly drew the tail through her fingers, stopping to grip it perhaps nine inches from the end and raising it to her lips. Keeping her eyes on his, she put out her tongue – shiny-black like a snake's – and licked the tip, then made as if to tap him on the chin with it. He drew his head back and she released the appendage, unperturbed.

"I must say," she said, extending her arms with a dancer's grace, "I do like this skin you've given me."

"I beg your pardon?" Sabhya asked, startled. "That _I've_ given you?"

Disregarding him, the Demon ran her fingers admiringly over the faint dusting of light under her skin, like the shimmer of distant stars in the night sky. "Do you think I'm beautiful?"

"I do, yes," he said honestly. Like a lighting storm, or a master's sculpture, she was indeed beautiful, although Sabhya was no more drawn to her than he would have been to a force of nature or a work of art. She met his eyes knowingly.

"I _so_ look forward to our getting to know one another. We have plenty of time, and we understand patience, don't we?" Before he could react, her hand darted out to caress his face. "Such an intriguing morsel that you are."

She pulled back and laid a finger alongside her nose. "Dear me." She lowered her eyes in mock repentance. "I mean to say, 'mortal.'"

Sabhya swallowed. "I suspect it comes to the same thing."

The Demon looked him in the eye, her spindled pupils expanded to nacreous discs, and her laughter echoed from the turgid air, lapping at him like the wavelets of an incoming tide.

_"Time to go, little mortal."_

He opened his eyes to see his bunk's framework and blinked, trying to regain his bearings in the waking world.

_That was . . . disconcerting. Interesting. Weird. I'd definitely better ask Ines about it. Do I need wardings? Can I cast spells if it happens again?_

Preoccupied with all his questions, he began to sit up and abruptly became aware of the sticky mess in his crotch.

_Wonderful._ He let his head fall back to the pillow with an exasperated thump. _So, Torrin it is._

**.o0o.**


	11. Epiphany

**11. Epiphany**

**.o0o.**

"Well, doesn't this look cozy." Niall leaned against the corner bunk and regarded the little group.

Sabhya and Jowan bent over a text at the nearby study carrel. In the upper bunk Petra was engrossed in a small book of her own, while below Kinnon, ostensibly writing out lines, was doodling sketches of the Suranae who sprawled in their smallclothes on the lower bunk opposite. Nereinye was draped bonelessly sidewise with her shoulders on the floor in an inky pool of her hair, idly rolling a foxfire wisp along her fingers. Jaleem lay prone with arms crossed and chin resting on his sister's belly as he browsed a tome he had propped against the headboard, the periodic flex of his dangling foot reminiscent of a cat's languid tail twitch.

"Listen to this." Petra laid the back of her hand across her brow and declaimed, "'_Threnodisia felt her very bones turn to water as she gazed, mesmerized, into his flashing, deep, amethyst orbs. His silken, aubergine locks rippled in the breeze—_'"

"What in the world?" Niall tipped up her book to see the cover. "Oh. That. It's making the rounds, I see. Don't let Wynne find you with it."

"Why? Something else she disapproves of?"

"No, actually, it belongs to her."

Nereinye dangled the wisp from her little finger. "In our experience you find—"

"—'flashing, deep amethyst orbs' on—"

"—the more repressed templars."

"It looks quite painful," Jaleem concluded, turning a page.

"I don't even want to ask." Niall rolled his eyes. "But on that topic, shouldn't you two be wearing, you know, clothes?"

Simultaneous hand flips conveyed the twins' indifference to the vagaries of templaric physiology as Kinnon commented, "At least it's easier to tell them apart this way."

"True, that. How can you look so relaxed when you're halfway off the bed?"

"Call it a gift, darling." Nereinye rotated her arm to let the wisp dribble around her wrist. "I heard Torrin say that if I'd specialized in anything other than School of Entropy the fabric of all creation would rip under the stress. I imagine then the Maker would wish he'd married a seamstress instead of a singer."

"School of Lethargy, more like." Jaleem stretched and nudged her into a more convenient position.

"Says Ser School of Rec-Creation."

"Bitch," he said amiably.

"Twit."

"Ugh, finally!" Jowan flung himself back in his chair. "I hate this guy. Tito tac Wtwyi – who made him the boss of how to do everything?" He gave _Meanes and Methodologie, Ye Propyr Approache _an irritable shove. "Why do you keep insisting I read this? All that blahblahblah, and he's so _smug_ it just makes me want to do it differently out of spite. I mean, chapter six, even _I_ can think of two other ways to get the same results, and one is a whole lot more efficient than his '_Propyr Appr-_' oh."

He stared into space in sudden enlightenment, and then looked sheepishly at Sabhya, who raised his brows and nodded encouragingly. "I get it. That's the whole reason, isn't it? To get me thinking about _why_ and the whole picture?" Sabhya broke into a smile, and Jowan flushed at the look of pride in the older boy's eyes.

"Exactly." Sabhya's voice cracked on the word and he cleared his throat discreetly as he put aside the despised text. "Although remember, tac Wtwyi's methodology is perfectly sound, for all that his delivery is so, well, opinionated. We should still try to understand it. Even if only to use that understanding as a signpost for going an entirely different direction."

Over the course of his commentary, Sabhya's voice jumped an octave, skidded down a minor fifth, and ended on a squawk that sounded like an hautbois in heat. Even the Suranae glanced over at that, and Jowan was clearly torn between commiserating with his hero and dissolving into a fit of giggles. Sabhya closed his eyes & shook his head resignedly.

"Well, that answers _that_ question," Niall said in amusement. "Good grief, your voice _still_ hasn't settled. Spell casting must be a mess. Doesn't your Primal group have practicals tomorrow?"

"Fireballs." Kinnon stood up, grinning, and made a dramatic throwing gesture. "_Awk-meep!_"

"I heard there's a betting pool over how badly he's going to do," Petra added. "I mean, it's not his strong point anyway, and if he can't even reliably pronounce the command? Not likely to be getting a gold star. What?" She rolled her eyes at Jowan's glare. "_I_ didn't start the book; I'm just passing on the information."

"Of course he'll pass!" Jowan said stoutly.

"Oh? How?"

Sabhya began to speak, thought better of it and spread his hands with a shrug.

"What could it possibly matter one way or the other?" Jaleem idly ran his fingers through his hair, letting the strands fall bit by bit. "Perform, don't perform, come back, do it all over again later. It's not as if we're _going_ anywhere. You act as though he's auditioning for an appointment at the king's court."

With a flick of her fingers, Nereinye sent the wisp to circle the bucket-helmed templar on guard in the hallway, who snuffed the dancing light with the absent irritability of a stable hand waving off a fly.

**.o0o.**

Sabhya lay wakeful in the small hours before rising the next morning. Jaleem's words were true enough, but there was more to it than the mere pride of passing a test.

_My voice will settle eventually, but other things happen. Illness, stress, interruptions. What if I need to defend myself or protect someone and I fail simply because I have a head cold? _

The problem was that he just couldn't seem to get a handle on the splashier sorts of spells. All of his practice with his Gift had been geared toward fine control, toward subtlety and restraint. Ironically, judging by what he had observed here in the Tower, the little ice candle he'd crafted as a child would be considered a masterwork of discipline, something only a few of the Senior Enchanters might attempt with success. Yet when it came to overt destruction, the kinds of results that tended to be easiest for so many others, all he seemed to be able to do was to wad all of his mana into a clumsy bunch and _throw _as hard as he could with the shouted command. He felt like a toddler flinging a stack of paper in a fit of temper, and, more often than not, his results were about that effective.

_And that's when I can trust my voice._

Thinking of the little ice tree, Sabhya breathed deeply and allowed himself to sink into the memory, to feel the comfort of Amah's arms around him as they watched the play of light. The smell of herbs and flatbread. The rustle of her skirt.

_Arms . . ._

He remembered Padre's arms wrapped around him, a haven of safety, an embrace smelling of leather, fresh air and horses. Even when Padre had been at sea for months, somehow there was always the faint hint of the animals he'd loved, consummate horseman that he was. Sabhya could remember standing with Amah to watch Padre and the gauchos training the stock, and the races they held every fiesta.

_Races . . ._

In his mind's eye, Sabhya could see Padre's magnificent Antivan barbs drawn up at the starting posts. They would be trembling with eagerness for the run, muscles bunching and ears flicking forward to the horizon and back to their steadying riders. There would be a pause of exquisite tension, the kerchief would drop, and with the slightest touch of heel and thrust of rein there would be an explosion of action, a surge of power and motion and flying chunks of sod as they drove as one toward their goal.

Sabhya's eyes widened in sudden understanding and he swung around to sit up.

_"Control" doesn't have to mean "diminish." Guidance isn't about weakening._

He rose and headed for the bathing room, his mind working furiously.

**.o0o.**

_Ffffsshhh-krrmp!_

A spatter of applause and a pair of Tranquil moved in to set a fresh target and extinguish the smoldering bits of the previous one while the Seniors nodded and made their notes.

Sabhya stood waiting his turn at the back wall of the practice room with the other apprentices, smiling politely at the occasional witticisms at his expense.

_Ffffsshh-KRACK!_

"Ooo!" Applause.

Disregarding the murmurs around him, he turned his focus inward and tickled his Gift into wakefulness.

_Come up, come up. _He let the mana rise and swirl, higher and faster. And this time, rather than tamping the power down or breaking it up, he merely kept it bounded. _ Spin and speed and heat and force. _ Steadied it, coaxed it into readiness, a diminutive jockey secure on this whirling mass of sheer potential. _Wait, wait, ready—_

"In your own time, Amell." Senior Torrin's dry comment elicited a chorus of sniggers from the other apprentices.

With a nod of apology, Sabhya stepped forward to the mark and focused his attention on the wooden target.

_Steady, steady._

_Tossing, pawing, awaiting the signal . . . the kerchief drops._

He rapidly shaped the gestures and _whispered_ the command.

A white-hot ball of plasma streaked across the room, punched a hole in the target and impacted the far wall like a molten hammer.

After a moment, the _snap! _of masonry splitting in the center of the resulting crater resounded in the dead silence.

"I'm sorry," Sabhya offered, his voice cracking and warbling on every other syllable. "I was supposed to destroy the entire target, wasn't I?"

**.o0o.**

* * *

_._

_A/N: The passage from Petra's book is brought to you by a comment from Oleander's One. And infinite, belated thanks to Champion the Wonder Snail for preliminary reassurances on this whole idea. :) _

_._


	12. Interlude with Whispers

**12. Interlude with Whispers**

**.o0o.**

_To be heard outside the Knight Commander's office:_

"What are you looking at?"

"I'm checking for damage. Some of us have a wager as to when the Knight Commander will begin tearing strips off you in fact instead of metaphorically."

"Bite me."

"Just ate, Geatly, try not to be disappointed. Hasn't Greagoir already chewed on you enough?"

"Maker, don't remind me. You needn't smirk like that."

"You bring it on yourself, old boy."

"Look, the runt tripped over his robe right in front of me."

"Do tell."

"All I said when I was done laughing was that he'd obviously get around better in trousers."

"Mm-hm, mm-hm."

"And he said that was true, and was there a rule about it and did I think—"

"Aha, there's where you went wrong."

"Get stuffed, Marcusson. The runt asked if I thought Greagoir or Irving would object if he didn't wear the regular robes."

"Pray, do continue."

"And I said I'm sure they don't care if he runs bare-arse naked, just go away and leave me be, only don't expect the Tranquil to interrupt their work for some little arts and crafts project. And he thanked me and buggered off."

"Aaannd? Having implicitly given permission in the Knight Commander's name? Which I'm sure has absolutely nothing to do with why you're now on privy duty for the next fortnight."

"Well, I wasn't to know the little bastard can sew, was I?"

**.o0o.**

_To be heard at the Senior Enchanters' table:_

"Hand me— Torrin! Hand me the bread, will you?"

"With such a diplomatic application of the Arancia Elbow, how can I refuse?"

"And the preserves."

"Anything else? Butter? Salt? My rib meat, which you seem determined to tenderize?"

"Nay, I'm good for now, boyo. But I'll let you know when I want something else."

"Your expressions of gratitude overwhelm. Clearly, mentoring young Amell has been a good influence on your character."

"Heh."

"Ines."

"What?"

"Do the canary feathers go well with plum marmalade?"

"Looking smug, am I?"

"In a word, yes."

"Made a wee discovery this week, the lad and I, as to why he's such a dab hand with the plants. Turns out when he's tending and planting, he's been feeding them something like healing mana."

"Really? I recall he tested fairly low for Creation, other than the basics."

"He wasn't even aware he was doing it. It's on such a slow, low level that I'm fair sure the most paranoid buckethead wouldn't bat an eye. I only thought to watch for it because I was seeing the difference between his plantings and my own. Bigger, healthier, more concentrated properties. I'm expecting to find it carries over into his work in the stillroom, too."

"Intriguing."

"Oh, aye. Makes you think twice on some of those tall tales you hear about Dalish mages, now, does it not?"

"Hmm."

"It was a good day's work when I snaffled the lad up to mentor, if I say so myself. Knew he was a bright one."

"And of course irritating Wynne was the furthest thing from your mind."

"Oh, certainly."

"Certainly."

"That was just a happy bonus."

**.o0o.**

_To be heard from within a pile of sacking in the under storerooms:_

"Oohh, that's nice."

"So nice . . . do you like this?"

"Mmm."

"Or how about this?"

"Mmm- mmhm!"

"You know he's too polite to talk with his mouth fuwahahaaarr!"

"What?"

" . . . whooo, shit . . ."

"Sorry, are you all right?"

"Where'd you learn _that_?"

"I just have a good imagination, I suppose."

"To put it mildly . . . Right, let me try it."

"Hey, I want some!"

"You don't have the right equipment."

"I'm sure we can improvise."

"So there — nyer."

"Big scary tongue. Put it to use while you're waving it aroun- ah, yeh, like that . . ."

"Here, move your knee, please . . . yes, there."

"Twit."

"Biff."

"Now who's talking with their mouth full?"

"Oohhh . . ."

**.o0o.**


	13. Broken Wings

_Thank you, Ventisquear, for your thoughtful insights vis-à-vis flora, fauna, and rooftops._

* * *

**13. Broken Wings**

**.o0o.**

"Oh, look. It's the Little Volunteer."

The snide comment was pitched to carry through the surrounding noise of the crowd exiting the dining hall.

"Good morning, Anders," Sabhya said pleasantly, with a tiny headshake at the bristling Jowan.

Anders looked down his nose and smirked at the admiring girls with him.

"I expect it may be, not that we'll get a chance to enjoy it from in here. Oh, wait, I forgot. This is your _preferred_ environment, right? You strolled on up and knocked on the door and _asked_ to be mewed up in here. I guess the great big world was just too great big for you, huh?" He spread his hands with a look of wide-eyed innocence and chanted, "I'm just _say-ing,_" to the appreciative titters of his fans.

"Perhaps so." Sabhya inclined his head courteously. "If you'll excuse us, please." He skirted the group and continued on to join the waiting Suranae.

Jowan was muttering like a kettle on the verge of boiling as the four of them proceeded along the corridor.

"That puffed-up _prick._ Who does he think he is?"

"He's extremely talented."

"So what? He wasn't even _here_ when you arrived. What an incredible arse."

The Suranae's heads swiveled and they eyed the tall blond human speculatively, Nereinye turning altogether and walking backwards as she did, and Anders preened under the attention.

"Mm. It—"

"—certainly is."

"Oh, blegh." Jowan dropped back into Nereinye's line of sight and made the fingers-down-the-throat gesture at her.

"I find him unsettling," Sabhya said under his breath. Nereinye was demonstrating her own version of the gesture to an increasingly scarlet-faced Jowan and the near-inaudible comment went unnoticed by all except Jaleem, who glanced over curiously. Embarrassed, Sabhya shook his head and shrugged as he moved on.

_What do I say? That his rebelliousness, his unwavering determination to escape no matter what is impressive, is praiseworthy, is enviable, and is somehow disturbing? Because that sort of single-minded drive is an aspect of the tunnel vision that mandates the Towers in the first place?_

_Sophistry. Be honest. He does no less than what I should have been attempting myself. Except I look at him and all I can see is the threat of the dungeon. He's been locked up twice already, and the mere thought of that makes me sick with fear. He's a constant reminder of __what I gave up and of the threat which I'm too much of a coward and a weakling to even consider risking._

_He's a constant reminder of how I betrayed all my family's sacrifices._

He startled out of his brooding as Jaleem pounced on him and stuck his tongue in his ear.

"Thoughts of an incredible arse should never lead to such a grim look." The elf wrapped his arms around Sabhya's neck from behind and began walking in lockstep, his hair a silky curtain around their faces as he leaned over the smaller man. "We'll be in the storeroom later," Jaleem breathed. "Taking inventory. Moving stock. As it were. Join us?" Delicate fingertips traced the soft whiskers framing Sabhya's mouth and scribbled in the new growth on his jaw.

Smiling, Sabhya relaxed and patted the elbow tucked up under his chin.

"Yes, if I can," he murmured. "Ines has me working on a grafting project, which could be fairly time consuming if everything doesn't go just so."

"If we get bored we'll just start without you."

"You generally are, and you always do."

"Such an observant young mageling it is." Jaleem draped himself more comfortably against Sabhya's back and dangled one arm to flick idly at the edges of his sash. "Is she still planning to take you into the field with her?"

"In less than a month, before the season turns." He couldn't help the flare of anticipation at the thought. "She's gotten all the permissions and assurances pushed through at last."

"Lady Botany is allowed to bring her unharrowed apprentice out of the Tower. What _will_ the Maker think?"

"She can be exceptionally persuasive." Sabhya chuckled, and then sobered. "I can hardly credit it still. It's an unbelievable stroke of luck."

"My darling man-child, you made your own luck by being what you are." Twirling the writing brush he had appropriated unnoticed from Sabhya's belt-pouch, Jaleem added, "You do realize that's what has Anders in a snit."

Sabhya nodded sadly. "I do, yes. I wish—well. It is as it is."

"He's still an arse," Jowan said.

**.o0o.**

Sabhya sat back on his heels to stretch his shoulders prior to moving on to the next tub of saplings, nodding courteously at the nearer of the two guards, faceless in his helm, who turned to watch.

_Ser Boward, by the looks of it. _The aging templar's points were always tied crookedly, the knots drooping mournfully to the left. One of the less approachable of their keepers, although not outright cruel as some. _I'd have been more comfortable if it were Marcusson, or Bran. Even Geatly. Boward's temper has gotten so . . . chancy. Still, far better that he be around me and Ines than the little ones. _

The roof area set aside for Ines' research and other plantings was as different from the vibrant Antivan balconies and rooftop gardens as snow was from fire. Even under the open sky – or indeed because of it at this height – the sense of isolation was almost surreal, a detachment from the true natural world mirroring that of the entire Tower community. Still, crouched down and looking up through the spindly foliage at the milk-washed sky, hearing the rustle of Ines working nearby and the twitters of the ubiquitous sparrows, Sabhya could almost pretend he was truly out somewhere on a forest floor. _Less than a month, now, we will be. Less than a month._

Ser Boward shifted restlessly and the faint clink of mail brought Sabhya abruptly back to reality.

As he bent to resume his work an especially bold sparrow fluttered into the tub to investigate the disturbed soil, casting bright-eyed glances at the human as it did. A stray tuft of down caught over its brow gave it the rakish look of a courtier in a plumed hat as it tipped its head, and Sabhya smiled at the sight. He dug into his belt pouch for the bit of bread crust he always brought for the purpose and sprinkled a few crumbs which his visitor snapped up, hopping closer afterwards in cheeky expectation.

On an impulse, Sabhya crumbled the remainder into his palm and held it out, and to his delight the sparrow bounced to his fingers without hesitation. Its feet were surprisingly warm, tiny threads of scratchy heat against his skin as it busily pecked and mumbled at the offering. He longed to touch the wild creature, to riffle a fingertip in the downy breast, but refrained and contented himself with drinking in the tiny perfection with his eyes alone. _Although I wonder if over time I might—_

"Away!"

A mailed fist slammed across his hand and Sabhya cried out in pain, the force of the blow sending him sprawling into the planter which promptly tipped over with a crash of snapping branches. Ser Boward was looming over him, breathing stertorously and dragging off his helm, lank grey hair falling over eyes with hugely distended pupils. Shocked and confused, Sabhya followed the old templar's gaze to where the sparrow was flopping on the ground in ungainly circles and peeping in distress, its wing and tail bent at cruel angles.

"Oh, creators, no, the poor—"

"Filthy shapeshifter! Witch!" Discarding his helm, Boward strode over and raised his foot.

"No, _please don't!_"

The steel boot descended with a nauseating crunch even as Sabhya flung himself forward. On all fours, he watched in horror as Boward stamped once more, twice more, a third time to grind the remains, chanting the while, "Witch. Witch. Witch."

The old man looked up proudly, and froze, staring at Sabhya.

"Blood."

Briefly, Sabhya thought the man was referring to the awful detritus underfoot, then the scarlet-beaded gouge on his rapidly swelling hand registered.

"_Blood._"

"Ser Boward, that's where you—"

"_Blood Mage!_" The sword hissed free of the scabbard with terrifying competence.

"What? No! When you hit me, your gauntlet—" His hand gave out with a sharp lance of pain when he scrambled backwards, and he crabbed away awkwardly on his elbows. Boward followed and swung the blade up. The other guard was running over, but clearly would be too late to prevent—

"Filthy—!"

"Please, wait, you're mista—!"

A piercing whistle rent the air. Boward started, looking around and blinking confusedly, and let his blade sag long enough for his partner to arrive and divert him. Ines dropped her fingers from her lips and hauled Sabhya to his feet behind her in a scatter of soil and broken twigs.

"Aren't you late for services, Ser Boward?" Her voice was acid dipped in sugar.

"Oh? Oh, am I? But there was a blood—"

"I think _Greagoir_ may especially want to see you. _Both_ of you." She glared pointedly at the other templar. "_Now._ We'll follow." The other guard nodded and tugged carefully at Boward's arm. The elder allowed himself to be guided to the stairwell while he chatted about his battle with the vicious shapeshifting blood mage. A bloody feather wagged ludicrously from his heel, stuck to a rivet in grotesque decoration.

Ines examined Sabhya's hand, and he winced with a pained hiss when she prodded it.

"I'm thinking you've got a cracked bone or two, there. Tough it out a bit; we'll want Punch and Judy to see before we get it healed, as it's obvious to a blind beggar how you got hurt. Look, you can see the print of the mail in the bruising."

"Ines, I'm so sor—" he began wretchedly.

"Shut it, lad. Not your fault. That lyrium-addled dotard should have been retired months ago. You did nothing wrong. Feeding a wee birdie's no more a crime than breathing."

_Unless you're a mage. _ Cradling his injured hand and turning unhappily from the sight of the pathetic remains smeared on the stones, he preceded Ines down the stairs. _In which case breathing is apparently the greater transgression. _

**.o0o.**

"What, does yer head button up the back? He could have killed the lad!"

"But he didn't."

"But he could have!"

"_But he didn't!_" Greagoir slapped his palms on his desk and matched Ines glare for glare. He breathed heavily through his nose and then dropped his head, visibly counting to ten for control.

For a moment the only sound in the Knight Commander's office was the faint _squik_ of Irving's shoe as he idly rocked from heel to toe.

Sabhya stood quietly to one side, wearing a careful mask of composure and feeling that the experience on the roof was only marginally more uncomfortable than being shouted over in this manner.

"Look." Greagoir addressed the desktop. "Boward's family is connected at the highest levels in Denerim and in Val Royeaux, and is so conservative they likely think the wheel's an heretical innovation. After the cock-up during Remille's tenure we were left to clean house as we see fit – to a certain extent. We're always under scrutiny." He looked up. "And do you think for one minute that Boward's family would tolerate the scandal of having a scion of their precious line shipped off early without actually having committed any crime? They'd pull their strings, spend their influence, and believe you me, this Circle is positively progressive compared to some of the practices overseas. _Yes_, the man's gone addled. _Yes, _he's unstable. I tried to mitigate it with undemanding duties. Minding you and Amell, for example." He scowled.

"Until now. He got a glimpse of Amell in the corridor outside the infirmary and went off all over again in the barracks about witches and blood mages." Greagoir raised his hand as Sabhya stirred in alarm. "I know, it's all in his mind. Ser Jaynie gave me a full report, and he's bright enough to run some damage control. But we can't have Boward going into a frenzy every time he sees you; it's dangerous and disruptive, and eventually some idiot's going to believe him."

"So what do ye suggest? Shall we have Amell wear a bag over his head? Because Maker forbid we should inconvenience a politically-connected, lyrium-addled bampot and actually _do_ something about the situation."

"I have already proposed the solution," Irving interjected with his usual gravelly complacency while Greagoir looked daggers at Ines. "Young Sabhya will be moved into the Tranquils' living quarters for the time being and assist Vidoc in the stillroom. Ser Boward will be given duties in other areas of the Tower that will ensure their paths do not cross before he retires in the next few weeks."

"That's yer solution, is it? Never mind the break in the lad's training."

"Now, now, with the level of Vidoc's expertise young Sabhya will only profit from the experience."

"And the codger is leaving when?" Ines asked suspiciously.

"He leaves for Val Royeaux the first week of Bloomingtide."

_Bloomingtide? _His heart sank. _That's over two months from now. _Sabhya looked quickly at his mentor; judging by her narrowed eyes the same thought had occurred to her.

"Well, then," she said dangerously. "What a fine coincidence it is that the lad'll be out of the way doing field research with me by that time."

"Out of the question." Greagoir spoke flatly.

"_What! _ Ye tin-plated gobshite, what about me research?"

"My dear," soothed Irving, "I am sure you recognize that under these circumstances the highly irregular exceptions that were granted naturally must be rescinded. Perhaps, just perhaps, next year. You can always carry on on your own." The raspy expressions of sympathy were under laid with a hint of self-satisfied, academic one-upmanship. Ines inhaled sharply and the skin beside her nostrils compressed into white bars of fury.

"And you, ye neep-headed bauchle! Yer 'solution's' a load of steaming bollocks that'd make a cat throw up! What, ye been waiting to toss shade on me work, have ye? Glommin' about pretendin' yer not rattlin' empty as a ten year old walnut—"

"Take it outside, you two," Greagoir snapped. "We're done here."

"Of course, my old friend, of course." Irving spread his arms and herded the fuming woman to the door. "Come along, my dear woman."

"Keep yer hands to yerself, ye bloody useless walloper, or I'll shove it so far up yer arse ye'll be picking yer nose from the inside!"

"Must remember that one," the Knight Commander muttered, rubbing his forehead. Sabhya swallowed his crushing disappointment and began to follow his seniors.

"Amell. A word."

"_—dense as a bag of manure and half as useful—_"

Sabhya closed the door in response to Greagoir's gesture and returned to wait near the desk.

"Your hand. They healed it completely?"

"Yes." Concealing his surprise at the query, he held it out and flexed it. "Thank you for inquiring."

"Good." Greagoir moved to the sideboard and with an air of distraction took up a decanter and poured a glass of brandy. In the corner beyond, Sabhya could see a chess board set up, mid-game with a scatter of captured pieces: pawns, a knight.

_Only one chair. He's been playing himself, I think?_

It struck him as terribly lonely, somehow.

"I won't pretend all this is anything resembling justice, and I won't insult you by expecting you to either." Greagoir poured a second glass, picked them both up and turned to hold one out to Sabhya, twitching it in a _go on _gesture when the apprentice hesitated. "Can you at least understand _why_ it is as it is?"

Sabhya accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks, seeing the weariness in the older man's too-straight posture and lined in his face.

_In some ways, he's as trapped by circumstance as we are._

"I begin to, I think," he said after a short silence. The brandy was exquisitely smooth. He met Greagoir's eyes frankly. "But it shouldn't have to be that way." The knight grimaced and looked glumly into his own glass.

"Ser?"

"Hm?"

_"_May I – or someone – please be sure to let my friends know what's going on? When they hear I've been sent to stay with the Tranquil, they're going to assume the worst."

"Of course. Torrin," he said dryly, "might be a more reassuring intermediary than Ines at the moment. I doubt a templar's word will be coin of the realm."

"I'm afraid I agree." Sabhya felt a surge of relief. "Thank you for understanding, ser."

Greagoir's mouth quirked. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not an entirely heartless monster."

"No, ser." He sipped the warming spirit and his eyes wandered back to the game pieces suspended within their two-toned boundaries. Greagoir followed his gaze.

"You play chess?"

"I know the moves."

"Trust me, Amell," was the bitter response. "You'll find you can never learn all the moves."

**.o0o.**


	14. Exegesis

**14. Exegesis**

**.o0o.**

Jowan paused to flex his hand. "Did I mention I might have found a better way to get through some of those long passages?"

"No, I don't believe so." Sabhya looked up from the tome he was browsing. "Please, tell me."

"It seems to help if I copy things out vertically, just a few words each line, kind of like a poem. I don't know why, but I can remember it that way without getting it all twisted up."

"That's wonderful." Sabhya considered a moment. "And really clever. I'd never have thought of that." He smiled at the younger man.

"Mm. It takes bloody forever, though." Jowan sighed, inking his reed pen and resuming his careful inscription. "Of course that's assuming I copy it right to begin with." He put the pen aside to examine his work, and then angled the parchment toward Sabhya. "How does this look?"

"Good." Sabhya skimmed the line of runes. "Ah, wait. Here, the limitation is backwards."

"Damn."

"Try thinking of it as though it were reaching toward the rest of the measure. The branches are the arms, and the small fork is anchoring it on the other side so it won't tip over."

Jowan chewed his lip, frowning, and took up the pen again.

Four increasingly frustrated attempts later, the last of which continued to see not only the original rune reversed but several surrounding as well, he dug his fingers through his hair and threw the pen down.

"Agh! I'm so _tired_ of being so _stupid!_"

"Jowan." Sabhya caught the reed before it fell off the table and tucked it in the holder with the others. "You are _not_ stupid. Far from it."

"Yes, well, of course you have to say that."

"I say it because it's the truth."

Jowan shook his head and dropped back in his chair to stare gloomily at the ceiling.

"You've already got an instinctive grasp of the advanced Healing spells." Sabhya began, indicating the books on the table.

"When I can make them work."

"When you can make them work," Sabhya agreed. "Which is more than I can do. All I can do is read about the theory. Listen, brother, it's more than that. You've told me how the words and letters jumble up in your mind, and I can see the disconnect manifest. I can't even begin to fathom how difficult it is for you; it must be like having to relearn everything in a random language no one else knows on a daily basis. But in spite of that, you _do it._ Jowan, the truth is: you're _brilliant._ Yes, you are." This in response to a derisive snort. "You're in the position of the only man in a crowd who has to carry his own weight in stones. It takes all his strength to keep up with the extra burden, but if he didn't have to spend all his energy doing so, just imagine how far he'd outstrip everyone else."

Setting his elbows back on the table with a thump, Jowan glared.

"Oh, fine. I'm so _gifted_ it takes everything I can do not to be a _complete_ failure. How is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, that's not what I—" Sabhya broke off, distressed. "I'm sorry, Jowan."

The other looked down. "I—no. Me, too." He fiddled with the edge of the parchment a moment, then looked sidelong at the smaller man. "Actually, it does rather. Seem better. A little."

Sabhya smiled and touched Jowan's arm, accepting the peace offering.

Taking a deep breath, Jowan retrieved his pen.

"So. This is me being brilliant for another hour or two. Huzzah."

Sabhya chuckled. "Go, team." Jowan shot him a wry look and bent to his writing.

For a time their only sounds against the library's background murmur were the occasional rustle of pages and the periodic _clink-tic-tic_ as Jowan recharged his pen. Eventually, becoming aware of a lack of movement beside him, Jowan glanced up to see Sabhya gazing abstractedly over an open book, lost in thought.

"I know that look."

Sabhya nodded vaguely, and Jowan nudged him.

"Hey. Come back. What's got you so preoccupied?"

"Just an intriguing chain of thought. I—hm." Sabhya pulled a reed pen from the holder and toyed with it a moment, then propped it against the stack of books at a very particular angle. Jowan leaned back to stretch, rolling his head in a joint-popping circle while lazily viewing the room. When he finished, he picked up the pen and replaced it in the same position, their private "All Clear" signal.

"In fact, I was considering the nature of Blood Magic."

"Guh? Maker's Breath, _what_ are you reading?" Jowan tugged the book over. "Master Healer Satakieli's _Compiled Treatises on Critical Wound Management_." There was a longish pause. "All right," he said slowly. "I suppose I can see the connection, or at least what got you thinking along those lines. She does get pretty graphic."

"Satakieli's not for weak stomachs," Sabhya agreed.

"So?"

"So." Thoughtfully, Sabhya brushed his fingertips over the pages. "Healing spells slow and stop bleeding, knit torn flesh. They can strengthen and regulate a heartbeat. They can cause blood to flow where it's needed, break up harmful clots, cool fevers. Isn't that technically a sort of Blood Magic? Satakieli even discusses a means of warming the blood to treat frostbite, and histories report that one of the Magisters' favorite tricks was to boil victims' blood in their veins."

He nodded in agreement with Jowan's grimace of distaste, and added, "From that perspective, it's almost as if Blood Magic is an offshoot of Healing."

"An evil malevolent sort of offshoot," Jowan said dryly.

"The fact that the Chantry uses our blood to control us would seem to bear that out," Sabhya responded, equally dry. He sobered. "But it makes one think about how much of the corruption lies solely within the user. A person needn't be a Blood Mage, or a spell user, or have any power at all in order to be monstrous. And face it; there are dark sides to most of the Schools. Look at Entropy – many of those spells are downright horrific, but would anyone say Nereinye is a Creature of Evil?"

Jowan arched an eyebrow and grinned. "That depends on whether you're asking the Target of the Week."

"True." Sabhya chuckled. "But you see my point. It just seems that the will and inten—"

Jowan picked up the reed pen, dipped it in the ink and began scribing a new rune with his usual care.

"—ded message within Frackington-fitzFforthwright's work is that the perceived quality of corporeal nature may not actually be quantifiable, let alone perceptibly qualitative." Sabhya continued smoothly as the templar strolled past them. "Truly a fascinating perspective on the deep-seated nature of the depths of the quality of nature."

"Indubitably."

"Indeed."

"I'm done here." Jowan sprinkled sand over the parchment and tapped off the excess. "Anyway, it's about time to eat. Come with?"

"Certainly." The two stood, and Jowan paused.

"Thanks. I mean, for—thanks."

Sabhya met his eyes. "Always, brother."

Jowan drew himself up and peered down his nose. "I always look up to you, big brother."

Sabhya glared at the taller man's sternum. "See that you do," he said severely.

Laughing, the two headed for the door.

"Eff-fitzEff? Seriously?"

"You have to admit he's memorable."

"In a brain-numbing way."

The templar yawned behind them and propped himself against a convenient book stack.

**.o0o.**


	15. Interlude with Reflection

**15. Interlude with Reflection**

**.o0o.**

Sabhya patted his freshly-trimmed beard dry, turning his head with a small grimace at the mirror.

_More and more. Or rather, less. _Long fingers traced the wide swathes of exposed skin over his forehead and temples and touched the naked patch on his crown. He sighed ruefully. _At this rate there'll be nothing left long before I'm thirty years old._

Folding the towel, he began to put away his kit and paused, considering the razor in his hand.

_Hmm. _He raised his eyes back to the glass. _Well . . . Why wait for the inevitable?_

Some thirty minutes and two healing spells later (who knew running a blade over one's own head would be quite so awkward?), Sabhya toweled himself off and regarded his image, trying to view it as a stranger might.

Perhaps it was his coffee-and-cream skin tone, or that he'd already become accustomed to the increasingly receding hairline, but the impact wasn't as startling as he'd expected. Without the patchy bald spots he actually looked more his own scarce twenty-three years of age, yet at the same time, interestingly, it lent his features a maturity he doubted was merited.

What did stand out were his eyes.

Large, slightly deep-set behind the hawkish nose, dark rich brown. Without the distraction of the hairline they now dominated his face, watching with a warm, quiet intensity.

Or, had it always been this way?

_My Madre's eyes . . ._

They were balanced by the dark beard framing his mouth in Padre's preferred style. Never any difficulties growing hair there, at any rate.

_"We can only hope you escape the fate of the Rebosas and actually keep it."_

He watched his eyes crease in sudden humor at the sound of Padre's laughing voice, beloved and warm as the sun on that afternoon, years ago in time and moments ago in memory.

_I wonder what would happen if I tried skipping stones out on the lake._

_I bet I could beat our record._

**.o0o.**


	16. Beneath the Harrow – part I

**16. Beneath the Harrow – part I**

**.o0o.**

"Did you hear? Cethlenn passed her Harrowing."

"Ugh. There'll be no living with the snooty bitch, now."

"Too good for us _lowly apprentices._"

"Well, I plan to stay on her good side."

"Does she _have_ a good side?"

"Her and her tattoos."

Titter.

"When do you think it's going to be us?"

"Soon. Probably. I mean, if _she_—"

"Random."

"But, um. Sometimes they don't. You know."

"Stop it."

"Only if you're weak."

"Remember Louis? He was stronger than—"

"Shut _up!_"

**.o0o.**

"Why is Petra crying?" Kinnon looked across the room to where Sabhya and Jowan were comforting the distraught young woman.

"You didn't hear?" One of the apprentices clustered nearby beckoned him over. "Ember was taken last night to be Harrowed and she _never came back!_" The girl pointed at an unkempt, empty bunk. "She's _dead!_"

"What? No, she isn't! She's fine! The templars put her back in the south dormitory by mistake. Oh, for Maker's sake!" Kinnon strode over to the little group, and a moment later Petra rushed from the room with a glad cry, Kinnon close on her heels.

"Oh, that's good." Sabhya sighed in fervent relief. He turned to Jowan and paused. "Jowan. Ah, little brother, don't look like that."

"I'll never make it."

"You _will_." Sabhya put his hands on the other's shoulders. "You're strong. In every way that matters."

"But if you . . . I couldn't bear it."

The older man tightened his grip. "We'll be fine. _Believe_ it."

"This place. This _place._"

"I know."

**.o0o.**

The apprentice fumbled and dropped his books when the mana drain hit. With a dirty look at the nearby templars, he recovered his things and continued on down the corridor.

"Geatley . . ."

"Hey, a body's got to keep in practice. Oh, don't be such a stick, Bran, it's not like it actually hurts them." Geatley laughed. "The Runt turns perfectly green every time. I figure I'll get him to puke outright one of these days."

"Charming. Looking forward to cleaning up the mess?"

"Bah, that's what the Tranquil are for. Right, Cullen?" The novice jumped, guiltily jerking his attention away from a willowy figure exiting the far end of the hallway. Bran and Geatley exchanged knowing glances.

"Admiring the twin-view?" Cullen flushed at Bran's amused query and avoided his eyes.

"Which one was it?" Geatley craned his neck.

"Not sure it makes any difference."

"I suppose it would if you're fucking." Geatley grinned at the beet-red, stammering Cullen. "Or maybe not."

"From what I've hear—" Bran broke off. "Marcusson. Jaynie." He studied the approaching men's grim expressions. "A bad one?"

"The worst." Marcusson spoke curtly.

"Who was it this time?"

"Alger leTrey." Jaynie pulled off a gauntlet in order to rub his eyes.

"You're kidding."

"For just a second everything was fine. Then it was like he peeled his own face off through his mouth. Even caught the Knight-Commander off guard."

"Damn. You never can tell."

"Mmph. As soon as we dispatch a couple of Tranquil to clean up the remains we're off duty for the day."

"I'll take care of it, fellows." Bran waved them off. "You get some rest."

Geatley nudged Cullen and muttered, "You're up for your first Harrowing duty pretty soon, aren't you?"

Cullen swallowed, looking ill.

**.o0o.**

_"This should be amusing, my little morsel . . ."_

"Get up, you." The thin blanket was stripped away and Sabhya was pulled to his feet before he could open his eyes. Disoriented, he caught himself against the bunk (_Gift coiling, ready to strike) _and blinked up at the three fully armed and armored templars surrounding him. One thrust a wad of clothing at him.

"Dress."

Sabhya complied, his mind working rapidly as he came fully awake.

_No weapons in hand. They don't see me as a threat. One even has his arms folded. So, not a formal arrest. One is nervous – is that Cullen? I think so. Beating and rape party? _He felt sick, but stilled the defensive twitch of his Gift. _No; not impossible, but I think they'd be more aggressive. This is more—_

"Move."

—_like an escort. Willing or not. _

They headed for the doorway.

_Wait. I'm an idiot._

_I'm being taken for the Harrowing._

Hemmed in on all sides by the bulky armored bodies, Sabhya caught only the briefest glimpse of Jowan's face, chalk-white with fear, before he found himself being hustled along the corridor.

_Oh, little brother. We'll be fine. We'll be fine._

He knew he was trying to persuade himself.

_Please, let me have told him I love him often enough._

**.o0o.**


End file.
